\ 

SHAKESPEARE’S 

^ . 

TWELFTH  NIGHT; 

OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


WITH 

INTRODUCTION,  AND  NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CRITICAL 


FOR  USE  IN  SCHOOLS  AND  FAMILIES, 


BY  THE 

Rev.  henry  N.  HUDSON,  LL.D. 


BOSTON,  U.S.A. : 

PUBLISHED  BY  GINN  & COMPANY. 
1900 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1880,  by 
Henry  N.  Hudson, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washingtono 


Typography  by  J.  S.  Cushing  & Co.,  Boston,  U.S.A. 


Presswork  by  Ginn  & Co.,  Boston,  U.S.A. 


GENERAL  PREFACE. 


ENGLISH  IN  SCHOOLS. 

HY  should  English  Literature  be  taught  in  oui 


V V schools  ? and,  What  is  the  best  way  of  teaching  it  ? 
These  are  the  questions  which  I propose  to  discuss. 

As  preliminary  to  such  discussion,  it  will,  I think,  be  rightly 
in  place  to  consider,  briefly,  what  our  people  are  aiming  to 
prepare  their  children  for,  and  what  sort  of  an  education  it  is 
the  proper  business  of  the  school  to  give ; that  is  to  say, 
what  form  of  mind  and  character,  and  what  disposition  of 
the  faculties,  it  is  meant  to  impress. 


Now  I take  it  that  a vast  majority  of  the  pupils  in  our 
schools  are  not  to  pass  their  life  as  students  or  as  authors. 
Their  main  business  in  this  world  is  to  gain  an  honest  living 


for  themselves  and  for  those  dependent  on  them.  And  no 


plan  of  education  is  just  that  leaves  this  prime  consideration 
behind,  in  quest  of  any  alleged  higher  aims  : for  there  really 
are  no  higher  aims ; and  all  pretence  of  such  is  a delusion 
and  a snare.  Some  men,  it  is  true,  do  more  than  gain  an 
honest  living ; but  this  is  the  best  thing  that  any  man  does  ; 
as,  on  the  other  hand,  shining  intellectually  is  the  poorest 
thing  that  any  man  does,  or  can  possibly  learn  to  do.  Then 
too  most  of  the  pupils  in  our  schools,  ninety-nine  hundredths 
of  them  at  the  least,  are  to  get  their  living  by  hand-work,  not 
;^by  head-work ; and  what  they  need  is,  to  have  their  heads 


3 


55671 


4 


GENERAL  PREFACE. 


SO  armed  and  furnished  as  to  guard  their  hand-work  against 
error  and  loss,  and  to  guide  it  to  the  most  productive  means 
and  methods.  And,  for  gaining  an  honest  living  by  hand- 
work, the  largest  and  best  part  of  their  education  is  not  to  be 
had  in  school ; it  must  be  got  somewhere  else,  or  not  at  all. 
The  right  place,  the  only  right  place,  for  learning  the  trade 
of  a farmer  or  a mechanic  is  on  the  farm  or  in  the  shop. 
For  instance,  Mr.  Edward  Burnett’s  Deerfoot  Farm,”  in 
Southborough,  Massachusetts,  is,  I undertake  to  say,  a better 
school  for  learning  agriculture  than  any  agricultural  col- 
lege ” is  likely  to  be.  There  is  no  practicable,  nay,  no  pos- 
sible way  of  acquiring  the  use  of  tools  but  by  actually  handling 
them,  and  working  with  them.  And  this  rule  holds  equally 
true  in  all  the  walks  of  life,  — holds  as  true  of  the  lawyer,  the 
physician,  the  merchant,  as  of  the  shoemaker,  the  bricklayer, 
the  machinist,  the  blacksmith. 

On  this  point,  our  people  generally,  at  least  a very  large 
portion  of  them,  have  their  notions  all  wrong  side  up  : their 
ideas  and  expectations  in  the  matter  are  literally  preposterous. 
How  the  thing  came  to  be  so,  it  were  bootless  to  inquire ; 
but  so  it  clearly  is.  Parents,  with  us,  are  manifestly  sup- 
posing that  it  is  the  business  of  the  school  to  give  their  chil- 
dren all  the  education  needful  for  gaining  an  honest  living : 
that  their  boys  and  girls  ought  to  come  from  the  school- 
teachers’ hands  fully  armed  and  equipped  for  engaging, 
intelligently  and  successfully,  in  all  sorts  of  work,  whether  of 
head  or  of  hand.  And  they  are  evermore  complaining  and 
finding  fault  because  this  is  not  done  ; that  their  children, 
after  all,  have  only  learnt  how  to  use  books,  if  indeed  they 
have  learnt  that,  and  know  no  more  how  to  use  tools,  are  no 
better  fitted  to  make  or  procure  food  and  clothes,  than  if 
they  had  spent  so  much  time  in  stark  idleness  or  in  sleep. 


ENGLISH  IN  SCHOOLS. 


5 


But  the  fault  is  in  themselves,  not  in  the  school ; their  expec- 
tations on  this  head  being  altogether  unreasonable,  and  such 
as  the  school  cannot  possibly  answer.  That,  say  what  you 
please,  is  the  plain  English  of  the  matter ; and  it  may  as  well 
be  spoken. 

I repeat  that,  with  very  few  exceptions,  and  those  mostly 
applicable  to  girls,  the  most  and  the  best  that  the  school  can 
do,  or  can  reasonably  be  expected  to  do,  is  to  educate  the 
mind  and  the  heart : as  for  the  education  of  their  children’s 
hands,  parents  must,  yes,  must  look  for  this  elsewhere : 
probably  their  best  way  is  to  take  it  into  their  own  immediate 
care,  and  hold  themselves  religiously  bound  to  attend  to  it. 
Possibly,  withal,  some  parents,  as  also  some  who  drive  the 
trade  of  idealizing  about  education,  may  need  to  be  taught, 
or  warned,  that  unless  the  school  have  something  ready  made 
to  its  hand,  unless  the  pupil  bring  to  it  something  inside  his 
skull,  it  cannot  educate  his  mind  : brains  it  cannot  furnish ; 
though  it  is  often  blamed  for  not  doing  this  too.  And,  good 
as  vocal  intelligence  may  be,  yet,  for  all  the  practical  ends, 
and  even  the  dignities,  of  life,  manual  intelligence  is  vastly 
better : this  it  is  that  makes  both  the  artist  and  the  artisan ; 
and  without  this  the  former,  however  it  may  prattle  and  glit- 
ter, can  neither  plough  the  field  nor  reap  the  corn,  neither 
tan  the  leather  nor  make  the  shoe,  neither  shape  the  brick 
nor  build  the  wall,  neither  grind  the  flour  nor  bake  the 
bread. 

But  I suspect  our  American  parents  have  become  some- 
what absurdly,  and  not  very  innocently,  ambitious  of  having 
their  boys  and  girls  all  educated  to  be  gentlemen  and  ladies  ; 
which  is,  I take  it,  the  same  in  effect  as  having  them  edu- 
cated to  be  good  for  nothing ; too  proud  or  too  lazy  to  live 
by  hand-work,  while  they  are  nowise  qualified  to  live  by 


6 


GENERAL  PREFACE. 


head-work,  nor  could  get  any  to  do,  if  they  were.  And  so 
they  insist  on  having  their  children  taught  how  to  do  some- 
thing, perhaps  several  things,  without  ever  soiling  their  fingers 
by  actually  doing  any  thing.  If  they  would,  in  all  meekness 
and  simplicity  of  heart,  endeavour  to  educate  their  children 
to  be  good  for  something,  they  would  be  infinitely  more  likely 
to  overtake  the  aim  of  their  sinful  and  stupid  ambition.  The 
man  who  has  been  well  and  rightly  educated  to  earn,  and 
does  earn,  a fair  living  by  true  and  solid  service,  he  is  a gen- 
tleman in  the  only  sense  in  which  it  is  not  both  a sin  and  a 
shame  to  be  called  by  that  title.  Any  form  of  honest  service, 
however  plain  and  humble,  has  manliness  in  it,  and  is  there- 
fore a higher  style  of  gentility,  and  a sounder  basis  of  self- 
respect,  than  any,  even  the  proudest,  form  of  mere  social 
ornamentation.  The  dull  boy,  who  cannot  prate  science, 
but  can  drive  a cart  as  a cart  ought  to  be  driven,  or  the  dull 
girl  who  cannot  finger  a piano,  but  can  rightly  broil  a beef- 
steak, is,  in  the  eye  of  all  true  taste,  a far  more  sightly  and 
attractive  object  than  the  most  learned  and  accomplished 
good-for-nothing  in  the  world.  I have  seen  men  calling 
themselves  doctors,  who,  week  after  week,  month  after 
month,  year  after  year,  were  going  about  making  sham  calls 
on  bogus  patients,  that  so  they  might  either  get  themselves 
a practice  or  make  men  believe  they  had  got  one  ; and  have 
thought  that  the  poorest  drudge,  who  honestly  ate  his  bread, 
or  what  little  he  could  get,  in  the  sweat  of  his  face,  was  a 
prince  in  comparison  with  them.  An  aristocratic  idler  or 
trifler  or  spendthrift  or  clothes-frame,  however  strong  he  may 
smell  of  the  school  and  the  college,  of  books  and  of  lingual 
culture,  is  no  better  than  a vulgar  illiterate  loafer ; nor  can 
his  smart  clothes  and  his  perfumes  and  his  lily  hands  and  his 
fashionable  airs  shield  him  from  the  just  contempt  of  thought- 
ful men  and  sensible  women. 


ENGLISH  IN  SCHOOLS. 


1 


Now  so  long  as  people  proceed  upon  the  notion  that  their 
children’s  main  business  in  this  world  is  to  shine,  and  not  to 
work,  and  that  the  school  has  it  in  special  charge  to  fit  them 
out  at  all  points  for  a self-supporting  and  reputable  career  in 
life  ; just  so  long  they  will  continue  to  expect  and  demand 
of  the  school  that  which  the  school  cannot  give  ; to  grumble 
and  find  fault  because  it  fails  to  do  what  they  wish ; and  to 
insist  on  having  its  methods  changed  till  their  preposterous 
demands  are  satisfied.  On  the  other  hand,  the  school  could 
do  its  proper  work  much  better,  if  people  would  but  come 
down,  or  rather  come  up,  to  a just  conception  of  what  that 
work  is.  But  it  must  needs  fail,  in  a greater  or  less  degree, 
to  do  that  part  of  education  which  falls  within  its  legitimate 
province,  while  struggling  and  beating  about  in  a vain  en- 
deavour to  combine  this  with  that  part  which  fairly  lies  out- 
side of  its  province.  For,  in  straining  to  hit  the  impossible, 
we  are  pretty  sure  to  miss  the;  possible.  And  all  experienced 
teachers  know  right  well  that  those  parents  who  faithfully  do 
their  own  part  in  the  education  of  their  children  are  most 
apt  to  be  satisfied  with  what  the  school  is  doing. 

It  is,  then,  desirable  that  children  should  learn  to  think, 
but  it  is  indispensable  that  they  should  learn  to  work; 
and  I believe  it  is  possible  for  a large,  perhaps  the  larger, 
portion  of  them  to  be  so  educated  as  to  find  pleasure  in 
both.  But  the  great  question  is,  how  to  render  the  desira- 
ble thing  and  the  indispensable  thing  mutually  helpful  and 
supplementary.  For,  surely,  the  two  parts  of  education,  the 
education  of  the  mind  and  the  education  of  the  hand,  though 
quite  distinct  in  idea,  and  separate  in  act,  are  not,  or  need 
not  be,  at  all  antagonistic.  On  the  contrary,  the  school  can, 
and  should,  so  do  its  part  as  to  cooperate  with  and  further 
that  part  which  lies  beyond  its  province.  And  it  is  both  the 


8 


GENERAL  PREFACE. 


office  and  the  aim  of  a wise  benevolence  in  teachers  so  to 
deal  with  the  boys  under  their  care  as  to  make  them,  if  pos- 
sible, intelligent,  thoughtful,  sober-minded  men,  with  hearts 
set  and  tuned  to  such  services  and  such  pleasures  as  reason 
and  religion  approve ; also,  to  make  them  prudent,  upright; 
patriotic  citizens,  with  heads  so  stocked  and  tempered  as  not 
to  be  cajoled  and  driven  about  in  herds  ” by  greedy,  ambi- 
tious, unprincipled  demagogues,  and  the  political  gamesters 
of  the  day.  And  here  it  is  to  be  noted,  withal,  that  any  man 
who  gains  an  honest  living  for  himself,  whether  lettered  or 
unlettered,  is  a good  citizen  in  the  right  sense  of  the  term ; 
and  that  human  slugs  and  do-nothings,  however  book-learned 
they  may  be,  are  not  good  citizens. 

As  for  the  women,  let  it  suffice  that  their  rights  and  inter- 
ests in  this  matter  are  coordinate  with  those  of  the  men ; 
just  that,  and  no  more.  Their  main  business,  also,  is  to  get 
an  honest  living.  And  the  education  that  unprepares  them 
or  leaves  them  unprepared  for  this  is  the  height  of  folly  and 
of  wrong.  And  I hope  the  most  of  them  are  not  going  to 
turn  students  or  authors  by  profession,  nor  to  aim  at  eating 
their  bread  in  the  sweat  of  the  brain.  For  things  have  al- 
ready come  to  that  pass  with  us,  that  any  fool  can  write  a 
book  : the  great  difficulty  is  in  finding  people  who  know 
enough  and  have  strength  enough  not  to  attempt  it. 

And  here  let  me  say  that  the  greatest  institution  in  the 
world  is  the  family ; worth  all  the  others  put  together,  and 
the  foundation  of  them  all.  So,  again,  the  greatest  art 
known  among  men  is  housekeeping,  which  is  the  life  of  the 
family.  For  what  are  we  poor  mortals  good  for,  in  head, 
heart,  hand,  or  any  thing  else,  without  healthy,  eupeptic 
stomachs  ? and  how  are  we  to  have  such  stomachs  without 
good  cooking?  So  that  I reckon  housekeeping  to  be  just 


ENGLISH  IN  SCHOOLS. 


9 


the  last  thing  that  any  lady  can  afford  to  be  ignorant  of. 
The  finest  accomplishment  too  that  woman  was  ever  beauti- 
fied with.  This  part  of  woman’s  education,  also,  is  to  be 
gained  at  home  ; it  cannot  be  gained  anywhere  else.  As  foi 
those  young  ladies  who  are  above  going  into  the  kitchen,  and 
learning  this  great  art  by  actually  working  at  it,  my  advice  is, 
that  they  forthwith  migrate  to  a world  where  the  home  and 
the  family  have  no  place,  and  where  babies  are  not  to  be 
born  and  nursed. 

Our  girls  in  school,  then,  should,  first  of  all,  be  fashioned 
for  intelligent,  thoughtful,  sober-minded  women  ; with  souls 
attempered  and  attuned  to  the  honest  and  ennobling  delec- 
tations of  the  fireside ; their  heads  furnished  and  disposed 
to  be  prudent,  skillful,  dutiful  wives  and  mothers  and  house- 
keepers ; home-loving  and  home-staying ; formed  for  steady 
loves,  serene  attachments,  quiet  virtues,  and  the  whole  flock 
of  household  pieties ; all  suited  to  the  office  of 

A creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature’s  daily  food. 

The  love  of  home,  and  the  art  of  making  home  lovely,  must 
be  mainly  acquired  in  the  works  and  enjoyments  of  home ; 
and  the  best  thing  that  the  school  can  do  is  to  cooperate 
with  the  home  to  that  end. 

But  the  most  important  item  in  this  account,  and  that 
which  is  the  main  subject  of  what  I have  to  say,  is  yet  to 
come. 

We  have  reached  a stage  of  civilization  and  general  cul- 
ture in  which  both  the  virtue  and  the  happiness  of  people 
depend  very  much  on  their  intellectual  forming  and  furnish- 
ing. And  as  this  holds  true  alike  of  both  sexes,  so  both  will 
be  included  alike  in  the  scope  of  what  I have  in  mind  to 


lO 


GENERAL  PREFACE. 


speak  further.  Books,  of  one  sort  or  another,  are  now,  on 
every  hand,  a common  resort  for  entertainment  and  pleasure, 
and  are  likely  to  become  more  and  more  so.  Wealth  has 
greatly  accumulated  ; machinery  has  come  to  do  a large  part 
of  our  work ; and  all  sorts  of  people  have  more  or  less  of 
leisure  on  their  hands.  This  leisure  ought  not  to  be  spent 
in  idleness,  neither  will  it  be.  In  the  vacancy  of  their  hands 
people’s  thoughts  will  needs  be  busy  either  for  the  better  or 
for  the  worse  : if  their  minds  are  not  dressed  for  the  abode 
of  the  Deity,  they  will  be  workshops  of  the  Devil.  And 
reading  does  in  fact  bear  a large  part  in  filling  up  such 
vacant  time. 

Now  the  world  is  getting  full  of  devils,  very  potent  ones 
too,  in  the  shape  of  foolish  and  bad  books.  And  I am  apt 
to  think  the  foolish  devils  in  that  shape  even  worse  than  the 
wicked  : for  they  only  begin  the  work  of  evil  somewhat  fur- 
ther off,  so  as  to  come  at  it  the  more  surely ; and  a slow 
creeping  infection  is  more  dangerous  than  a frank  assault. 
Nothing  so  bad  here  as  that  which  eludes  or  seduces  the 
moral  sentinels  of  the  heart.  I am  not  exactly  a believer  in 
the  old  doctrine  of  total  depravity;  but  I fear  it  must  be 
confessed  that  the  greater  number  of  people  take  much  more 
readily  to  that  which  is  false  and  bad  than  to  that  which  is 
good  and  true.  Certainly  what  intoxicates  and  lowers  stands 
a better  chance  with  them  than  what  sobers  and  elevates. 
Virtue  and  wisdom  are  an  up-hill  road,  where  they  do  not 
advance  without  some  effort ; folly  and  vice  a down-hill  path, 
where  it  requires  some  effort  not  to  advance.  And  this  is 
c^uite  as  true  in  intellectual  matters  as  in  moral.  Here,  to 
most  people,  delight  in  what  is  false  and  bad  comes  sponta- 
neously ; delight  in  what  is  true  and  good  is  the  slow  result 
of  discipline  and  care,  and  grows  by  postponement  of  im- 
pulse to  law. 


ENGLISH  IN  SCHOOLS. 


II 


I suspect  it  has  been  taken  for  granted  much  too  generally, 
that  if  people  know  how  to  read  they  will  be  apt  enough  to 
make  good  use  of  that  knowledge  without  further  concern, 
A very  great  mistake  ! This  faculty  is  quite  as  liable  to  abuse 
as  any  other  : probably  there  is  none  other  more  sadly  abused 
at  this  very  time ; none  that  needs  to  be  more  carefully 
fenced  about  with  the  safeguards  of  judgment  and  taste. 
Through  this  faculty  crowds  of  our  young  people  are  let  into 
the  society  of  such  things  as  can  only  degrade  and  corrupt, 
and,  to  a great  extent,  are  positively  drawn  away  from  the 
fellowship  of  such  as  would  elevate  and  correct.  Most,  prob- 
ably not  less  than  seven-eighths,  of  the  books  now  read  are 
simply  a discipline  of  debasement ; ministering  fierce  stimu- 
lants and  provocatives  to  the  lower  propensities,  and  habitu- 
ating the  thoughts  to  the  mud  and  slime  of  literary  cesspools 
and  slop-cooks. 

I have  indeed  no  faith  in  the  policy  or  the  efficacy  of  at- 
tempting to  squelch  these  springs  of  evil  by  forcible  seques- 
tration, or  to  keep  people  from  eating  this  poor  devil-soup 
by  muzzling  them.  If  they  will  take  to  it,  probably  the  best 
way  is  to  let  them  have  it ; perhaps  it  is  best  to  act  some- 
what on  the  plan  of  glutting  them  with  it,  in  the  hope  that 
so  they  may  outgrow  it : but  something  might  well  be  essayed 
so  to  fit  and  prepare  them  as  that  they  may  not  take  to  it, 
and  may  even  turn  away  from  it  with  disgust  when  it  comes 
to  them.  Surely,  at  all  events,  the  education  that  delivers 
people  over  to  such  feeding  is  a very  doubtful  good. 

In  view  of  all  which,  it  is  clearly  of  the  highest  conse- 
quence, that  from  their  early  youth  people  should  have  their 
minds  so  bent  and  disposed  as  to  find  pleasure  in  such  books 
as  are  adapted  to  purify  and  raise.  I say  pleasure^  because 
we  cannot  rely,  neither  ought  we,  on  arguments  of  right  ir 


12 


GENERAL  PREFACE. 


this  matter.  Reading  even  good  books  without  pleasure, 
and  merely  from  a sense  of  duty,  is  of  little  benefit,  and  may 
even  do  hurt,  by  breeding  insensibly  an  aversion  to  what  is 
good,  and  by  investing  it  with  irksome  associations.  A genial 
delight  in  that  which  is  good  is  what  sets  the  colours  of  it 
in  the  mind  : without  this,  the  mind  grows  at  odds  with  it. 
People  cannot  be  droned  or  bored  into  virtue ; and  if  evil 
were  made  as  tedious  to  them  as  good  often  is,  I suspect 
their  hearts  would  soon  be  weaned  from  ugliness,  and  won  to 
a marriage  with  beauty.  And  the  pith  of  my  argument  is, 
that  it  is  what  people  take  pleasure  in  that  really  shapes  and 
determines  their  characters.  So  experience  has  taught  me 
that  the  characters  of  students  in  college  are  influenced  far 
more  by  their  reading  than  by  their  studies.  From  the  books 
they  take  to  you  may  judge  at  once  whither  their  spirits  are 
tending,  and  what  they  are  inwardly  made  of,  because  here 
they  generally  go  by  free  choice  and  pleasure.  In  brief,  they 
study  what  they  must ; they  read  what  they  love  ; and  their 
souls  are  and  will  be  in  the  keeping  of  their  loves.  Even 
the  breath  of  excellence  is  apt  to  be  lost,  if  it  be  not  waited 
on  by  delight ; while,  to  love  worthy  objects,  and  in  a worthy 
manner,  is  the  top  and  crown  of  earthly  good,  ay,  and  of 
heavenly  good  also.  Considering  how  clear  and  evident  all 
this  is,  that  so  little  is  done,  even  in  our  highest  seats  of 
learning,  to  form  the  tastes  and  guide  the  reading  of  students, 
may  well  be  matter  of  grief  and  astonishment.  I have  long 
wondered  at  it,  and  often  sickened  over  it. 

Now,  to  fence  against  the  growing  pestilence  of  foolish 
and  bad  books,  I know  of  but  one  way ; and  that  is  by  en- 
deavouring systematically  so  to  familiarize  the  young  with  the 
best  and  purest  mental  preparations,  and  so  to  prepossess 
them  with  the  culture  of  that  which  is  wholesome  and  good, 


ENGLISH  IN  SCHOOLS. 


13 


that  they  may  have  an  honest,  hearty  relish  for  it.  The 
thing  is,  to  plant  the  mind  full  of  such  loves,  and  so  to  set 
and  form  the  intellectual  tastes  and  habits,  that  the  vicious 
and  false  will  be  spontaneously  refused,  and  the  healthy  and 
true  be  freely  preferred  ; this  too,  not  from  any  novelty  in  it, 
but  for  the  experienced  sweetness  and  beauty  of  it,  and  for 
the  quiet  joy  that  goes  in  company  with  it. 

Let  the  efficacy  of  a very  few  good  books  be  seasonably 
steeped  into  the  mind,  and  then,  in  the  matter  of  their 
reading,  people  will  be  apt  to  go  right  of  their  own  accord  ; 
and  assuredly  they  will  never  be  got  to  go  right  except  of 
their  own  accord.  You  may  thus  hope  to  predispose  and 
attune  the  faculties  of  choice  to  what  is  noble  and  sweet, 
before  the  springs  of  choice  are  vitiated  by  evil  or  ignorant 
conversations.  If  people  have  their  tastes  set  betimes  to 
such  authors  as  Spenser  and  Shakespeare,  Addison,  Scott, 
Wordsworth,  and  Charles  Lamb,  is  it  likely  that  they  will 
stomach  such  foul  stuff  as  the  literary  slums  and  grog-shops 
of  the  day  are  teeming  with  ? I hope  it  is  not  so,  and  I will 
not  readily  believe  it  can  be  so.  Nor  can  I see  any  imprac- 
ticability, any  insuperable  difficulty  here.  Instances  of  native 
dulness  or  perversity  there  will  indeed  be,  such  as  no  soul- 
music  can  penetrate  : but  that,  as  a general  thing,  young 
minds,  yet  undeflowered  by  the  sensational  flash  and  fury  of 
vulgar  book-makers,  will  be  found  proof  against  the  might 
and  sweetness  of  that  which  is  intellectually  beautiful  and 
good,  provided  they  be  held  in  communication  with  it  long 
enough  for  its  virtue  to  penetrate  them,  is  what  I will  not, 
must  not,  believe,  without  a fairer  trial  than  has  yet  been 
made. 

In  reference  to  the  foregoing  points,  a well-chosen  and 
well-used  course  of  study  in  the  best  English  classics  seems 


14 


GENERAL  PREFACE. 


IT 


the  most  eligible  and  most  effective  preparation.  Whether 
to  the  ends  of  practical  use  or  of  rational  pleasure,  this  can- 
not but  be  the  right  line  of  early  mental  culture.  The  direct 
aids  and  inspirations  of  religion  excepted,  what  better  nursery 
can  there  be  of  just  thoughts  and  healthy  tastes  ? what  more 
apt  to  train  and  feed  the  mind  for  the  common  duties,  inter- 
ests, affections,  and  enjoyments  of  life  ? For  the  very  process 
here  stands  in  framing  and  disposing  the  mind  for  intercourse 
with  the  sayings  of  the  wise,  with  the  gathered  treasures  of 
light  and  joy,  and  with  the  meanings  and  beauties  of  Nature 
as  seen  by  the  eye,  and  interpreted  by  the  pen,  of  genius 
and  wisdom. 

We  are  getting  sadly  estranged  from  right  ideas  as  to  the 
nature  and  scope  of  literary  workmanship.  For  literature,  in 
its  proper  character,  is  nowise  a something  standing  outside 
of  and  apart  from  the  practical  service  of  life  ; a sort  of  moon- 
shine world,  where  the  working  understanding  sleeps  for  the 
idle  fancy  to  dream.  This  is  no  doubt  true  in  regard  to  most 
of  the  books  now  read ; which  are  indeed  no  books,  but 
mere  devils  and  dunces  in  books’  clothing ; but  it  is  not  at 
all  true  of  books  that  are  books  indeed.  These  draw  right 
into  the  substance  and  pith  of  actual  things ; the  matter  of 
them  is  labour’d  and  distill’d  through  all  the  needful  uses  of 
our  lives  ” ; the  soul  of  their  purpose  is  to  arm  and  strength- 
en the  head,  and  to  inspire  and  direct  the  hand,  for  pro- 
ductive work.  That  an  author  brings  us  face  to  face  with 
real  men  and  things,  and  helps  us  to  see  them  as  they  are ; 
that  he  furnishes  us  with  enablements  for  conversing  ration- 
ally, and  for  wrestling  effectively,  with  the  problems  of  living, 
operative  truth ; that  he  ministers  guidance  and  support  for 
thinking  nobly  and  working  bravely  in  the  services,  through 
tlie  ])erils,  under  the  difficulties  and  adversities  of  our  state, 


ENGLISH  IN  SCHOOLS. 


IS 


— this  is  the  test  and  measure  of  his  worth ; this  is  the  sole 
basis  of  his  claim  to  rank  as  a classic.  This,  to  be  sure,  is 
not  always  done  directly,  neither  ought  it  to  be;  for  the 
helps  that  touch  our  uses  more  or  less  indirectly  often  serve 
us  best,  because  they  call  for  and  naturally  prompt  our  own 
mental  and  moral  cooperation  in  turning  them  to  practical 
account. 

It  is  such  literature  that  the  poet  has  in  view  when  he 
tells  us,  — 

books,  we  know, 

Are  a substantial  world,  both  pure  and  good : 

Round  these,  with  tendrils  strong  as  flesh  and  blood, 

Our  pastime  and  our  happiness  will  grow. 

And  books  are  yours. 

Within  whose  silent  chambers  treasure  lies 
Preserved  from  age  to  age ; more  precious  far 
Than  that  accumulated  store  of  gold 
And  orient  gems  which,  for  a day  of  need. 

The  Sultan  hides  deep  in  ancestral  tombs: 

These  hoards  you  can  unlock  at  will. 

Nor  is  it  the  least  benefit  of  such  authors  that  they  reconcile 
and  combine  utility  with  pleasure,  making  each  ministrative 
to  the  other  ; so  that  the  grace  of  pleasant  thoughts  becomes 
the  sweeter  for  their  usefulness,  and  the  virtue  of  working 
thoughts  the  more  telling  for  their  pleasantness  ; the  two  thus 
pulling  and  rejoicing  together.  For  so  the  right  order  of 
mental  action  is  where  delight  pays  tribute  to  use,  and  use 
to  delight ; and  there  is  no  worse  corruption  of  literature  in 
the  long  run  than  where  these  are  divorced,  and  made  to 
pull  in  different  lines.  Such  pleasure  is  itself  uplifting,  be- 
cause it  goes  hand  in  hand  with  duty.  And  as  life,  with  its 
inevitable  wants  and  cares  and  toils,  is  apt  to  be  hard  enough 
at  the  best  with  most  of  us,  there  is  need  of  all  the  assuage 


i6 


GENERAL  PREFACE. 


ments  and  alleviations  that  can  come  from  this  harmonizing 
process.  Pressed  as  we  are  with  heavy  laws,  happy  indeed 
is  he 

Who  from  the  well-spring  of  his  own  clear  breast 
Can  draw,  and  sing  his  griefs  to  rest. 

Next  to  a good  conscience  and  the  aids  of  Christian  faith, 
there  is  no  stronger  support  under  the  burdens  of  our  lot 
than  the  companionship  of  such  refreshing  and  soul-lifting 
thoughts  as  spring  up  by  the  wayside  of  duty,  from  our  being 
at  home  with  the  approved  interpreters  of  Nature  and  truth. 
This  is  indeed  to  carry  with  us  in  our  working  hours  a power 

That  beautifies  the  fairest  shore, 

And  mitigates  the  harshest  clime. 

Now  I do  not  like  to  hear  it  said  that  our  school-education 
can  do  nothing  towards  this  result.  I believe,  nay,  I am 
sure,  it  can  do  much ; though  I have  to  admit  that  it  has 
done  and  is  doing  far  less  than  it  might.  I fear  it  may  even 
be  said  that  our  course  is  rather  operating  as  a hindrance 
than  as  a help  in  this  respect.  What  sort  of  reading  are  our 
schools  planting  an  appetite  for?  Are  they  really  doing  any 
thing  to  instruct  and  form  the  mental  taste,  so  that  the  pupils 
on  leaving  them  may  be  safely  left  to  choose  their  reading 
for  themselves  ? It  is  clear  in  evidence  that  they  are  far  from 
educating  the  young  to  take  pleasure  in  what  is  intellectually 
noble  and  sweet.  The  statistics  of  our  public  libraries  show 
that  some  cause  is  working  mightily  to  prepare  them  only 
for  delight  in  what  is  both  morally  and  intellectually  mean 
and  foul.  It  would  not  indeed  be  fair  to  charge  our  public 
schools  with  positively  giving  this  preparation  ; but  it  is  their 
business  to  forestall  and  prevent  such  a result.  If,  along  with 
the  faculty  of  reading,  they  cannot  also  impart  some  safe 


ENGLISH  IN  SCHOOLS. 


17 


guards  of  taste  and  habit  against  such  a result,  will  the  system 
prove  a success  ? 

As  things  now  go,  English  literature  is  postponed  to  almost 
every  thing  else  in  our  public  schools  : much  as  ever  it  can 
gain  admission  at  all ; and  the  most  that  can  be  got  for  it  is 
merely  such  fag-ends  of  time  as  may  possibly  be  spared  from 
other  studies.  We  think  it  a fine  thing  to  have  our  children 
studying  Demosthenes  and  Cicero ; but  do  not  mind  having 
them  left  almost  totally  ignorant  of  Burke  and  Webster.  Yet, 
in  the  matter  of  practical  learning,  ay,  and  of  liberal  learning 
too,  for  deep  and  comprehensive  eloquence,  for  instruction 
in  statesmanship,  and  in  the  principles  of  civil  order  and 
social  well-being,  Burke  alone  is  worth  more  than  all  the 
oratory  of  Greece  and  Rome  put  together ; albeit  I am  far 
from  meaning  to  disrepute  the  latter.  And  a few  of  Webster’s 
speeches,  besides  their  treasure  of  noble  English,  — a manly 
style  fitted  to  manly  ears,”— have  in  them  more  that  would 
come  home  to  the  business  and  bosoms  of  our  best  American 
intelligence,  more  that  is  suited  to  the  ends  of  a well-in- 
structed patriotism,  than  all  that  we  have  inherited  from  the 
lips  of  ancient  orators. 

So,  again,  we  spare  no  cost  to  have  our  children  delving 
in  the  suburbs  and  outskirts  of  Homer  and  Virgil ; for  not 
one  in  fifty  of  them  ever  gets  beyond  these ; yet  we  take  no 
pains  to  have  them  living  in  the  heart  of  Shakespeare  and 
Wordsworth  : while  there  is  in  Shakespeare  a richer  fund  of 
sweetness  and  light,”  more  and  better  food  for  the  intel- 
lectual soul,  a larger  provision  of  such  thoughts  as  should 
dwell  together  with  the  spirit  of  a man,  and  be  twisted  about 
his  heart  for  ever,  than  in  the  collective  poetry  of  the  whole 
ancient  heathen  world. 

It  may  indeed  be  said  that  these  treasures  are  in  a language 


i8 


GENERAL  PREFACE. 


i 


already  known,  and  so  are  accessible  to  people  without  any 
special  preparation ; and  that  the  school  is  meant  to  furnish 
the  keys  to  such  wealth  as  would  else  be  locked  up  from 
them.  But  our  public  schools  leave  the  pupils  without  any 
taste  for  those  native  treasures,  or  any  aptitude  to  enjoy  them  : 
the  course  there  pursued  does  almost  nothing  to  fit  and 
dispose  the  pupils  for  communing  with  the  wisdom  and 
beauty  enshrined  in  our  mother-tongue  ; while  hardly  any  so 
master  the  Greek  and  Latin  as  to  hold  communion  with  the 
intellectual  virtue  which  they  enshrine.  Few,  very  few,  after 
all,  can  be  trained  to  love  Homer ; while  there  are,  I must 
think,  comparatively  few  who  cannot  be  trained  to  love 
Shakespeare  ; and  the  main  thing  is  to  plant  that  love.  The 
point,  then,  is  just  here  : Our  schools  are  neither  giving  the 
pupils  the  key  to  the  wisdom  of  Homer,  nor  disposing  them 
to  use  the  key  to  the  wisdom  of  Shakespeare.  And  so  the 
result  is  that,  instead  of  bathing  in  the  deep,  clear  streams 
of  thought,  ancient  or  modern,  they  have  no  taste  but  for 
waddling  or  wallowing  in  the  shallow,  turbid  puddles  of  the 
time ; — 

Best  pleased  with  what  is  aptliest  framed 

To  enervate  and  defile. 

It  is  a notorious  fact  that  among  our  highly-educated  peo« 
pie,  the  graduates  of  our  colleges,  really  good  English  scholars 
are  extremely  rare.  I suspect  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that 
among  our  instructors  there  are  at  least  twenty  competent  to 
teach  Greek  and  Latin,  where  there  is  one  competent  to 
teach  English  literature.  Very  few  indeed  of  them  are  really 
at  home  in  the  great  masters  of  our  native  tongue,  so  as  to 
make  them  matter  of  fruitful  exercise  in  the  class-room. 
They  know  not  how  to  come  at  them,  or  to  shape  their 
course  in  teaching  them.  Their  minds  are  so  engrossed 


ENGLISH  IN  SCHOOLS. 


19 


with  the  verbal  part  of  learning,  that,  unless  they  have  a husk 
of  words  to  stick  in,  as  in  studying  a foreign  tongue,  they 
can  hardly  find  where  to  stick  at  all. 

This  habit,  I suppose,  comes  mainly  as  a tradition  from  a 
former  age  ; a habit  which,  though  begun  upon  good  causes, 
has  been  kept  up  long  after  those  causes  were  done  away. 
The  prevailing  ideas  herein  got  fixed  at  a time  when  there 
was  no  well-formed  English  literature  in  being;  when  the 
language  itself  was  raw  and  rude ; and  when  the  world’s 
whole  stock  of  intellectual  wealth  was  enshrined  in  other 
tongues.  The  custom  thus  settled  from  necessity  is  contin^ 
ued  to  this  day,  when  the  English  tongue,  besides  its  own 
vast  fund  of  original  treasure,  has  had  the  blood  of  all  the 
best  human  thought  transfused  into  its  veins,  and  when  its 
walks  have  grown  rich  and  delectable  with  the  spoils  of  every 
earlier  fruitage  of  genius  and  learning. 

Three  centuries  ago  Chaucer  was  the  only  really  good  Eng- 
lish author ; he  was  then  two  hundred  years  old ; and  the 
language  had  changed  so  much  since  his  time,  that  reading 
him  was  almost  like  studying  a foreign  tongue.  So  much 
was  this  the  case,  that  Bacon  thought  the  English  was  going 
to  bankrupt  all  books  entrusted  to  its  keeping : he  therefore 
took  care  to  have  most  of  his  own  works  translated  into 
Latin  ; and  now  our  greatest  regret  touching  him  is,  that  we 
have  not  all  those  works  in  his  own  noble  English.  Before 
his  time,  the  language  changed  more  in  fifty  years  than  it  has 
done  in  all  the  three  hundred  years  since.  This  is  no  doubt 
because  the  mighty  workmen  of  that  age,  himself  among 
them,  did  so  much  to  bolt  off  change,”  by  the  vast  treasures 
of  thought  and  wisdom  which  they  found  or  made  the  lan- 
guage capable  of  expressing.  The  work  then  so  gloriously 
begun  has  been  going  on  ever  since,  though  not  always  with 


20 


GENERAL  PREFACE. 


the  same  grand  results ; until  now  the  English  is  commonly 
held  to  be  one  of  the  richest  and  noblest  tongues  ever 
spoken,  and  the  English  literature  is,  in  compass  and  variety 
of  intellectual  wealth,  unsurpassed  by  any  in  the  world. 

How  strange  it  is,  then,  that,  with  such  immense  riches  at 
hand  in  our  vernacular,  we  should  so  much  postpone  them 
to  the  springs  that  were  resorted  to  before  those  riches  grew 
into  being ! Because  Homer  and  Sophocles  had  to  be 
studied  before  Shakespeare  wrote,  why  should  Shakespeare 
still  be  ignored  in  our  liberal  education,  when  his  mighty 
works  have  dwarfed  Homer  and  Sophocles  into  infants? 
There  might  indeed  be  some  reason  in  this,  if  he  had  been 
in  any  sort  the  offspring  of  those  Greek  masters  : but  he  was 
blessedly  ignorant  of  them  ; which  may  partly  account  for  his 
having  so  much  surpassed  them.  He  did  not  conceive  him- 
self bound  to  think  and  write  as  they  did ; and  this  seems 
to  have  been  one  cause  why  he  thought  and  wrote  better 
than  they  did.  I really  can  see  no  reason  for  insisting  on 
learning  from  them  rather  than  from  him,  except  that  learn- 
ing from  him  is  vastly  easier. 

Nevertheless  I am  far  from  thinking  that  the  Greek  and 
Latin  ought  to  be  disused  or  made  little  of  in  our  course  of 
libei'al  learning.  On  the  contrary,  I would,  of  the  two,  have 
them  studied  in  college  even  more  thoroughly  than  they 
commonly  are  ; and  this,  not  only  because  of  their  unequalled 
use  in  mental  training  and  discipline,  and  as  a preparation 
for  solid  merit  and  success  in  the  learned  professions,  but 
also  because  a knowledge  of  them  is  so  largely  fundamental 
to  a practical  mastery  of  our  own  tongue.  And  here  I am 
moved  to  note  what  seems  to  me  a change  for  the  worse 
within  the  last  forty  years.  P'orty  years  ago,  besides  that  the 
Greek  and  Latin  were  made  more  of  in  college,  at  least 


ENGLISH  IN  SCHOOLS. 


21 


relatively,  than  they  are  now,  the  students  had  both  more 
time  for  English  studies,  and  also  more  of  judicious  prompt- 
ing and  guidance  in  their  reading.  But,  of  late,  there  has 
been  so  much  crowding-in  of  modern  languages  and  recent 
branches  of  science,  that  students  have  a good  deal  less  time 
than  formerly  for  cultivating  English  literature  by  themselves. 
In  short,  our  colleges,  it  seems  to  me,  did  much  more,  forty 
years  ago,  towards  setting  and  forming  right  literary  and 
intellectual  tastes  than  they  are  doing  now.  I believe  they 
are  now  turning  out  fewer  English  scholars,  and  that  these 
are  not  so  well  grounded  and  cultured  in  the  riches  of  our 
native  tongue.  The  fashion  indeed  has  been  growing  upon 
us  of  educating  the  mouth  much  more  than  the  mind  ; which 
seems  to  be  one  cause  why  we  are  having  so  many  more 
talkers  and  writers  than  thinkers.  An  unappeasable  itch  of 
popularity  is  eating  out  the  old  love  of  solid  learning,  and 
the  old  relish  for  the  haunts  of  the  Muses. 

It  may  have  been  observed,  that  in  this  argument  I dis- 
tinguish somewhat  broadly  between  a liberal  and  a practical 
education.  Our  colleges  ought  to  give,  and,  I suppose,  aim 
at  giving  the  former ; while  the  latter  is  all  that  our  public 
schools  can  justly  be  expected  to  give.  And  a large  majority 
of  the  pupils,  as  I said  before,  are  to  gain  their  living  by 
hand-work,  not  by  head-work.  But  then  we  want  them 
made  capable  of  solid  profit  and  of  honest  delight  in  the 
conversation  of  books ; for  this,  as  things  now  are,  is  essen- 
tial both  to  their  moral  health  and  also  to  their  highest 
success  in  work ; to  say  nothing  of  their  duties  and  interests 
as  citizens  of  a republican  State.  And,  to  this  end,  what  can 
be  more  practical,  in  the  just  sense  of  the  term,  than  planting 
and  nursing  in  them  right  intellectual  tastes,  so  that  their 
reading  shall  take  to  such  books  as  are  really  wholesome  and 
improving  ? 


22 


GENERAL  PREFACE. 


On  the  general  subject,  however,  I have  to  remark  further, 
that  our  education,  as  it  seems  to  me,  is  greatly  overworking 
the  study  of  language,  especially  in  the  modern  languages. 
From  the  way  our  young  people  are  hurried  into  French 
and  German,  one  would  suppose  there  were  no  English 
authors  worth  knowing,  nor  any  thought  in  the  English  tongue 
worth  learning.  So  we  cram  them  with  words,  and  educate 
them  into  ignorance  of  things,  and  then  exult  in  their  being 
able  to  “speak  no  sense  in  several  languages.”  Surely  a 
portion  of  the  time  might  be  as  innocently  spent  in  learning 
something  worth  speaking  in  plain  mother-English.  When 
we  add  that,  with  all  this  wear  and  tear  of  brain,  the  pupils, 
ten  to  one,  stick  in  the  crust  of  words,  and  never  get  through 
into  the  marrow  of  thought,  so  as  to  be  at  home  in  it,  our 
course  can  hardly  be  deemed  the  perfection  of  wisdom. 

Our  custom  herein  seems  to  involve  some  flagrant  defect 
or  error  in  our  philosophy  of  education.  The  true  process 
of  education  is  to  set  and  keep  the  mind  in  living  inter- 
course with  things  : the  works  and  ways  of  God  in  Nature 
are  our  true  educators.  And  the  right  office  of  language  is 
to  serve  as  the  medium  of  such  intercourse.  And  so  the 
secret  of  a good  style  in  writing  is,  that  words  be  used  purely 
in  their  representative  character,  and  not  at  all  for  their  own 
sake.  This  is  well  illustrated  in  Shakespeare,  who  in  his 
earlier  plays  used  language  partly  for  its  own  sake ; but  in 
his  later  plays  all  traces  of  such  use  disappear : here  he  uses 
it  purely  in  its  representative  character.  This  it  is,  in  great 
part,  that  makes  his  style  so  much  at  once  the  delight  and 
the  despair  of  those  who  now  undertake  to  write  the  English 
tongue.  And  in  other  writers  excellence  of  style  is  measured 
by  approximation  to  this  standard.  This  it  is  that  so  highly 
distinguishes  Webster’s  style, — the  best  yet  written  on  this 


ENGLISH  IN  SCHOOLS. 


23 


continent.  His  language  is  so  transparent,  that  in  reading 
him  one  seldom  thinks  of  it,  and  can  hardly  see  it.  In  fact, 
the  proper  character  of  his  style  is  perfect,  consummate 
manliness ; in  which  quality  I make  bold  to  affirm  that  he 
has  no  superior  in  the  whole  range  of  English  authorship. 
And  in  his  Autobiography  the  great  man  touches  the  secret 
as  to  how  this  came  about.  “ While  in  college,”  says  he, 
“ I delivered  two  or  three  occasional  addresses,  which  were 
published.  I trust  they  are  forgotten ; they  were  in  very  bad 
taste.  I had  not  then  learned  that  all  true  power  in  writing 
is  in  the  idea,  not  in  the  style  ; an  error  into  which  the  Ars 
rhetorica,  as  it  is  usually  taught,  may  easily  lead  stronger 
heads  than  mine.” 

Hence  it  follows  that  language  should  be  used  and  studied 
mainly  in  its  representative  character ; that  is,  as  a medium 
for  conversing  with  things ; and  that  studying  it  merely  or 
even  mainly  for  its  own  sake  is  a plain  inversion  of  the 
right  order.  For  words  are  of  no  use  but  as  they  bring  us 
acquainted  with  the  facts,  objects,  and  relations  of  Nature 
in  the  world  about  us.  The  actual  things  and  ideas  which 
they  stand  for,  or  are  the  signs  of,  are  what  we  ought  to 
know  and  have  commerce  with.  In  our  vernacular,  words 
are,  for  the  most  part,  naturally  and  unconsciously  used  in 
this  way ; except  where  a perverse  system  has  got  us  into  a 
habit  of  using  them  for  their  own  sake  ; which  is  indeed  the 
common  bane  of  American  authorship,  making  our  style  so 
intensely  self-conscious,  that  an  instructed  taste  soon  tires 
of  it.  But,  in  studying  a foreign  tongue,  the  language  itself 
is  and  has  to  be  the  object  of  thought.  Probably  not  one  in 
fifty  of  our  college  graduates  learns  to  use  the  Greek  and 
Latin  freely  as  a medium  of  converse  with  things.  Theit 
whole  mental  force  is  spent  on  the  words  themselves  ; or,  if 


24 


GENERAL  PREFACE. 


they  go  beyond  these  to  the  things  signified,  it  is  to  help 
their  understanding  of  the  words. 

I freely  admit  that  language,  even  our  own,  ought  to  be, 
to  some  extent,  an  object  of  study ; but  only  to  the  end 
of  perfecting  our  use  and  mastery  of  it  as  a medium.  So 
that  the  true  end  of  mental  action  is  missed,  where  language 
is  advanced  into  an  ultimate  object  of  study ; which  is  prac- 
tically making  the  end  subordinate  to  the  means.  Here, 
however,  I am  anxious  not  to  be  misunderstood,  and  lest  I 
may  seem  to  strain  the  point  too  far ; for  I know  full  well 
that  in  such  a cause  nothing  is  to  be  gained  by  breaches  of 
fairness  and  candour.  It  is  a question  of  relative  measure 
and  proportion.  And  I mean  that  our  education  treats  lan- 
guage quite  too  much  as  an  object  of  thought,  and  quite  too 
little  as  a medium.  Our  students,  it  seems  to  me,  are  alto- 
gether too  much  brought  up  in  *^the  alms-basket  of  words”  j 
and  of  too  many  of  them  it  may  not  unfairly  be  said,  “ They 
have  been  at  a great  feast  of  languages,  and  stolen  the 
scraps.” 

I have  said  that  our  custom  in  this  matter  stands  partly  as 
a tradition  from  a long-past  age  when  there  was  no  English 
literature  in  being.  But  this  does  not  wholly  explain  it.  The 
thing  proceeds  in  great  part  from  a perverse  vanity  of  going 
abroad  and  sporting  foreign  gear,  unmindful  of  the  good 
that  lies  nearer  home.  Hence  boys  and  girls,  especially  the 
latter,  are  hurried  into  studying  foreign  languages  before 
they  have  learnt  to  spell  correctly  or  to  read  intelligibly  in 
their  own.  I say  girls  especially,  because,  since  the  women 
set  out  to  equal,  perhaps  to  eclipse,  the  men  in  brain-power, 
a mighty  ambition  has  invaded  them  to  be  flourishing  their 
lingual  intellectuality  in  our  faces.  Besides,  the  fashion  now 
is  to  educate  young  women  for  any  place  rather  than  for 


ENGLISH  IN  SCHOOLS. 


25 


home.  Most  of  them  hope  some  time  to  spend  six  months 
travelling  in  Europe ; and  they  think  far  more  of  preparing 
for  that  holiday  than  for  all  the  working-day  honours  and 
services  of  life.  And  I fear  it  must  be  said  withal,  that  we 
are  the  most  apish  people  on  the  planet.  I wish  we  may 
not  prove  ^‘the  servum  pecus  of  a Gallic  breed.”  Be  that  as 
it  may,  parents  among  us  apparently  hold  it  a much  grander 
thing  to  have  their  children  chopping  Racine  and  Voltaire 
than  conversing  with  the  treasures  of  wisdom  and  beauty  in 
our  own  tongue  ; as  if  smattering  French  words  were  better 
than  understanding  English  and  American  things. 

Thus  our  school  education  is  growing  to  be  very  much  a 
positive  dispreparation  for  the  proper  cares,  duties,  interests, 
and  delectations  of  life.  The  further  a thing  draws  from  any 
useful  service  or  common  occasion,  the  more  pride  there  is 
in  studying  it.  Whatever  will  serve  best  to  prank  up  the 
mind  for  flaunting  out  its  life  away  from  home,  that  seems  to 
be  our  first  concern.  To  this  end,  we  prefer  something  out 
of  the  common  way ; something  that  can  be  turned  to  no 
account,  save  to  beguile  a frivolous  and  fashionable  leisure, 
or  to  mark  people  off  from  ordinary  humanity,  and  wrap 
them  up  in  the  poor  conceit  of  an  aristocratic  style.  In 
short,  we  look  upon  the  honest  study  of  our  honest  mother- 
English  as  a vulgar  thing ; and  it  pleases  us  to  forget  that 
this  squeamish  turning-up  of  the  nose  at  what  is  near  and 
common  is  just  the  vulgarest  thing  in  the  world.  Surely  we 
cannot  too  soon  wake  up  to  the  plain  truth,  that  real  honour 
and  elevation,  as  well  as  solid  profit,  are  to  grow  by  convers- 
ing with  the  things  that  live  and  work  about  us,  and  by  giv- 
ing our  studious  hours  to  those  masters  of  English  thought 
from  whom  we  may  learn  to  read,  soberly,  modestly,  and 
with  clear  intelligence,  a lew  pages  in  the  book  of  life. 


26 


GENERAL  PREFACE. 


The  chief  argument  in  support  of  the  prevailing  custom  is, 
that  the  study  of  languages,  especially  the  Greek  and  Latin, 
is  highly  serviceable  as  a mental  gymnastic.  No  doubt  it  is 
so.  But  the  study,  as  it  is  managed  with  us,  may  be  not  un- 
fairly charged  with  inverting  the  true  relative  importance  of 
mental  gymnastic  and  mental  diet.  Formerly  the  Greek  and 
Latin  were  held  to  be  enough ; but  now,  by  adding  three  or 
four  modern  languages,  we  are  making  the  linguistic  element 
altogether  too  prominent.  We  thus  give  the  mind  little  time 
for  feeding,  little  matter  to  feed  upon ; and  so  keep  it  exer- 
cising when  it  ought  to  be  feeding  : for  so  the  study  of  words 
has  much  exercise  and  little  food.  Now  such  an  excess 
of  activity  is  not  favourable  to  healthy  growth.  Substituting 
stimulants  for  nourishment  is  as  bad  for  the  mind  as  for  the 
body.  Supply  the  mind  with  wholesome  natural  food ; do 
all  you  can  to  tempt  and  awaken  the  appetite ; and  then 
trust  somewhat  to  nature.  True,  some  minds,  do  your  best, 
will  not  eat ; but,  if  they  do  not  eat,  then  they  ought  not  to 
act.  For  dulness,  let  me  tell  you,  is  not  so  bad  as  disease  ; 
and,  from  straining  so  hard  to  stimulate  and  force  the  mind 
into  action  without  eating,  nothing  but  disease  can  result. 
Depend  upon  it,  there  is  something  wrong  with  us  here  : 
food  and  exercise  are  not  rightly  proportioned  in  our  method. 
In  keeping  the  young  mind  so  much  on  a stretch  of  activity, 
as  if  the  mere  exercise  of  its  powers  were  to  be  sought  for  its 
own  sake,  we  are  at  war  with  nature.  And  a feverish,  rest- 
less, mischievous  activity  of  mind  is  the  natural  consequence 
of  such  a course  ; unless,  which  is  sometimes  the  case,  the 
mental  forces  get  dried  into  stiffness  from  mere  heat  of  gym- 
nastic stress. 

We  are  now  having  quite  too  much  of  this  diseased  men- 
tal activity.  Perhaps  our  greatest  danger  lies  in  a want  of 


ENGLISH  IN  SCHOOLS. 


27 


mental  repose.  The  chronic  nervous  intensity  thus  generated 
is  eating  the  life  out  of  us,  and  crushing  the  nobler  energies 
of  duty  and  virtue,  ay,  and  of  sound  intelligence  too.  For, 
while  we  are  thus  overworking  the  mind,  the  muscular  and 
nutritive  systems  of  course  suffer ; so  that,  first  we  know,  the 
mind  itself  gives  out ; and  people  go  foolish  or  crazy  from 
having  been  educated  all  into  nerves.  Composure  is  the 
right  pulse  of  mental  health,  as  it  is  also  of  moral ; and  “ a 
heart  that  watches  and  receives  ” will  gather  more  of  wis- 
dom than  a head  perpetually  on  the  jump.  We  need  “the 
harvest  of  a quiet  eye,”  that  feeds  on  the  proportions  of 
truth  as  she  beams  from  the  works  of  Nature  and  from  the 
pages  of  Nature’s  high-priests.  But  now  we  must  be  in  a 
giddy  whirl  of  brain-excitement,  else  we  are  miserable,  and 
think  our  mental  faculties  are  in  peril  of  stagnation.  Of  in- 
tellectual athletes  we  have  more  than  enough;  men,  and 
women  too,  who  think  to  renovate  the  world,  and  to  immor- 
talize themselves,  by  being  in  a continual  rapture  and  tumult 
of  brain-exercise  ; minds  hopelesly  disorbed  from  the  calm- 
ness of  reason,  and  held  in  a fever  of  activity  from  sheer  lack 
of  strength  to  sit  still.  It  was  such  minds  that  Bacon  had  in 
view  when  he  described  man  in  a certain  state  as  being  “ a 
busy,  mischievous,  wretched  thing,  no  better  than  a kind  of 
vermin.”  To  be  intellectual,  to  write  books,  to  do  wonders 
in  mental  pyrotechny,  is  not  the  chief  end  of  man,  nor  can 
we  make  it  so.  This  is  indeed  what  we  seem  to  be  aiming 
at,  but  we  shall  fail ; Nature  will  prove  too  strong  for  us  here  : 
and,  if  we  persist,  she  will  just  smash  us  up,  and  replace  us 
with  a people  not  so  tormentedly  smart.  It  is  to  the  meek, 
not  the  brilliant,  that  the  possession  of  the  Earth  is  promised. 

My  conclusion  from  the  whole  is,  that,  next  to  the  elemen- 
tary branches,  and  some  parts  of  science,  such  as  geography. 


28 


GENERAL  PREFACE. 


astronomy,  and  what  is  called  natural  philosophy,  standard 
authors  in  English  literature  ought  to  have  a place  in  our 
school  education.  Nor  am  I sure  but  that,  instead  of  thus 
postponing  the  latter  to  science,  it  were  still  better  to  put 
them  on  an  equal  footing  with  it.  For  they  draw  quite  as 
much  into  the  practical  currents  of  our  American  life  as  any 
studies  properly  scientific  do  ; and,  which  is  of  yet  higher 
regard,  they  have  it  in  them  to  be  much  more  effective  in 
shaping  the  character.  For  they  are  the  right  school  of  har- 
monious culture  as  distinguished  from  mere  formal  knowl- 
edge ; that  is,  they  are  a discipline  of  humanity  : and  to 
have  the  soul  rightly  alive  to  the  difference  between  the  noble 
and  the  base  is  better  than  understanding  the  laws  of  chem- 
ical affinity. 

As  to  the  best  way  of  teaching  English  literature,  I may 
speak  the  more  briefly  on  this,  inasmuch  as  a good  deal  to 
the  point  has  been,  I hope  not  obscurely,  implied  in  the  re- 
marks already  made. 

In  the  first  place,  I am  clear  that  only  a few  of  the  very  best 
and  fittest  authors  should  be  used ; and  that  these  should  be 
used  long  enough,  and  in  large  enough  portions,  for  the  pu- 
pils to  get  really  at  home  with  them,  and  for  the  grace  and 
efficacy  of  them  to  become  thoroughly  steeped  into  the  mind. 
Bacon  tells  us  that  some  books  are  to  be  tasted,  others  to 
be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to  be  chewed  and  digested.” 
Of  course  it  is  only  the  latter  that  I deem  worthy  to  be  used 
in  school.  And  I lay  special  stress  on  the  pupil’s  coming  at 
an  author  in  such  a way,  and  staying  with  him  so  long,  as  to 
study  him  with  honest  love  and  delight.  This  is  what  sets 
and  fixes  the  taste.  And  this  is  a thing  that  cannot  be  extem- 
porized : the  process  necessarily  takes  considerable  time. 


ENGLISH  IN  SCHOOLS. 


29 


For  wise  men’s  thoughts  are  a presence  to  live  in,  to  feed 
upon,  and  to  grow  into  the  likeness  of.  And  the  benefit  of 
a right  good  book  all  depends  upon  this,  that  its  virtue  just 
soak  into  the  mind,  and  there  become  a living,  generative 
force. 

Do  you  say  that  this  shuts  off  from  pupils  the  spur  and 
charm  of  novelty?  Yes,  that  it  does,  else  I would  not  urge 
it.  What  I want  first  of  all  is  to  shut  off  the  flashy,  fugitive 
charm  of  novelty,  so  as  to  secure  the  solid,  enduring  charm 
of  truth  and  beauty  ; for  these  are  what  it  does  the  soul  good 
to  be  charmed  with,  and  to  tie  up  in  the  society  of,  the 
charm  of  a “ concord  that  elevates  and  stills  ” ; while  the 
charm  of  novelty  is  but  as  “ the  crackling  of  thorns  under  a 
pot,”  — not  the  right  music  for  soul-sweetening.  “ A thing 
of  beauty  is  a joy  for  ever.”  And  they  know  nothing  of  the 
genesis  of  the  human  affections,  who  have  not  learned  that 
these  thrive  best  in  the  society  of  old  familiar  faces.  To  be 
running  and  rambling  over  a great  many  books,  tasting  a lit- 
tle here,  a little  there,  and  tying  up  with  none,  is  good  for 
nothing  in  school ; nay,  worse  than  nothing.  Such  a process 
of  “ unceasing  change  ” is  also  a discipline  of  perpetual 
emptiness.”  It  is  as  if  a man  should  turn  free-lover,  and  take 
to  himself  a new  wife  every  week ; in  which  case  I suppose 
he  would  soon  become  indifferent  to  them  all,  and  conclude 
one  woman  to  be  just  about  as  good  as  another.  The 
household  affections  do  not  grow  in  that  way.  And  the 
right  method  in  the  culture  of  the  mind  is  to  take  a few 
choice  books,  and  weave  about  them 

the  fix’d  delights  of  house  and  home, 
Friendships  that  will  not  break,  and  love  that  cannot  roam. 

Again  : In  teaching  English  literature,  I think  it  is  not  best 


30 


GENERAL  PREFACE. 


to  proceed  much,  if  at  all,  by  recitations,  but  by  what  may 
be  called  exercises  ; the  pupils  reading  the  author  under  the 
direction,  correction,  and  explanation  of  the  teacher.  The 
thing  is  to  have  the  pupils,  with  the  teacher’s  help  and  guid- 
ance, commune  with  the  author  while  in  class,  and  quietly 
drink  in  the  sense  and  spirit  of  his  workmanship.  Such 
communing  together  of  teacher  and  pupils  with  the  mind  of 
a good  book  cannot  but  be  highly  fruitful  to  them  both  : an 
interplay  of  fine  sympathies  and  inspirations  will  soon  spring 
up  between  them,  and  pleasant  surprises  of  truth  and  good 
will  be  stealing  over  them.  The  process  indeed  can  hardly 
fail  to  become  a real  sacrament  of  the  heart  between  them ; 
for  they  will  here  find  how  one  touch  of  nature  makes  the 
whole  world  kin.” 

Nor  would  I attempt  to  work  into  these  exercises  any  thing 
of  grammar  or  rhetoric  or  philology,  any  further  than  this 
may  be  clearly  needful  or  conducive  to  a full  and  fair  under- 
standing of  the  matter  read.  To  use  a standard  author 
mainly  as  a theme  or  text  for  carrying  on  studies  in  philol- 
ogy, is  in  my  account  just  putting  the  cart  before  the  horse. 
Here  the  end  is  or  should  be  to  make  the  pupils  understand 
and  relish  what  the  author  delivers ; and  whatever  of  philo- 
logical exercise  comes  in  should  be  held  strictly  subordinate 
to  this. 

With  my  classes  in  Shakespeare  and  Wordsworth,  as  also 
in  Burke  and  Webster,  I am  never  at  all  satisfied,  unless  I 
see  the  pupils  freely  taking  pleasure  in  the  workmanship. 
For  such  delight  in  a good  book  is  to  me  a sure  token  and 
proof  that  its  virtue  is  striking  in  and  going  to  the  spot. 
Rather  say,  it  is  a pledge,  nay,  it  is  the  very  pulsation,  of 
sympathy  and  vital  magnetism  between  the  mind  within  and 
the  object  without.  And  without  this  blessed  infection 


ENGLISH  IN  SCHOOLS. 


31 


beaming  in  the  face  and  sparkling  in  the  eyes,  even  the 
honest  striving  of  duty  on  the  pupil’s  part  rather  discourages 
me.  So,  unless  I can  get  the  pupils  to  be  happy  in  such 
communion,  I am  unhappy  myself;  and  this,  I suppose, 
because  it  is  naturally  unpleasant  to  see  people  standing  in 
the  presence  and  repeating  the  words  of  that  which  is  good, 
and  tasting  no  sweetness  therein.  For  “ what  is  noble  should 
be  sweet  ” ; and  ought,  if  possible,  to  be  bound  up  with  none 
but  pleasant  associations  ; that  so  delight  and  love  may  hold 
the  mind  in  perpetual  communion  with  the  springs  of  health 
and  joy.  And  if  I can  plant  in  young  minds  a genuine  relish 
for  the  authors  I have  named,  then  I feel  tolerably  confident 
that  the  devils  now  swarming  about  us  in  the  shape  of  bad 
books  will  stand  little  chance  with  them  ; for  I know  right 
well  that  those  authors  have  kept  legions  of  such  devils  off 
from  me. 

From  all  which  it  follows,  next,  that,  in  teaching  English 
literature,  I would  have  nothing  to  do  with  any  works  in 
formal  rhetoric,  or  with  any  general  outlines,  or  any  rapid 
and  wide  surveys,  or  any  of  the  school  reading-books  now 
in  use,  which  are  made  up  of  mere  chips  from  a multitude 
of  authors,  and  so  can  have  little  effect  but  to  generate  a 
rambling  and  desultory  habit  of  mind.  To  illustrate  my 
meaning,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  observe,  that  some  years 
ago  I knew  of  a program  being  set  forth  officially,  which  em- 
braced little  bits  from  a whole  rabble  of  American  authors, 
most  of  them  still  living ; but  not  a single  sentence  from 
Daniel  Webster ; who,  it  seems  to  me,  is  perhaps  the  only 
American  author  that  ought  to  have  been  included  in  the  list. 
This  program  was  drawn  up  for  a course  in  English  literature 
to  be  used  in  the  public  schools.  Instead  of  such  a mis- 
cellaneous collection  of  splinters,  my  thought  was  then,  and 


32 


GENERAL  PREFACE. 


is  now,  Give  us  a good  large  block  of  Webster  ; enough  for 
at  least  two  exercises  a week  through  half  a year.  This 
would  afford  a fair  chance  of  making  the  pupils  really  at 
home  with  one  tall  and  genuine  roll  of  intellectual  manhood  ; 
which  done,  they  would  then  have  something  to  guide  and 
prompt  them  into  the  society  of  other  kindred  rolls  : whereas, 
with  the  plan  proposed,  there  is  no  chance  of  getting  them 
at  home  with  any  intellectual  manhood  at  all ; nay,  rather,  it 

is  just  the  way  to  keep  them  without  any  intellectual  home, 

a nomadic  tribe  of  literary  puddle-sippers. 

As  for  the  matter  of  rhetoric,  all  that  can  be  of  much  use 
in  this  is,  I think,  best  learned  in  the  concrete,  and  by  famil- 
iarizing the  mind  with  standard  models  of  excellence.  For 
the  right  use  of  speech  goes  by  habit,  not  by  rule.  And  if 
people  should  happen  to  use  their  vernacular  clearly  and 
handsomely  without  knowing  why,  where  is  the  harm  of  it  ? 
Is  not  that  enough?  What  more  do  you  want?  If  you 
would  learn  to  speak  and  write  the  English  tongue  correctly, 
tastefully,  persuasively,  leave  the  rhetorics  behind,  and  give 
your  days  and  nights  to  the  masters  of  English  style.  This 
will  tend  to  keep  you  from  all  affectation  of ''fine  writing,” 
than  which  literature  has  nothing  more  empty  and  vapid. 
Besides,  it  is  only  after  the  mind  has  grown  largely  and 
closely  conversant  with  standard  authors,  that  studying  rhe- 
torical rules  and  forms  can  be  of  much  practical  use,  how- 
ever it  may  do  for  showing  off  in  recitation.  And  I c.m  in 
doubt  whether  it  were  not  better  omitted  even  then  : for  such 
study,  in  so  far  as  it  is  trusted  in  for  forming  a good  style, 
can  hardly  work  any  thing  but  damage  in  that  respect ; and 
this  because  it  naturally  sets  one  to  imitating  other  men’s 
verbal  felicities ; which  is  simply  a pestilent  vice  of  style. 
Therewithal  the  study  is  but  too  apt  to  possess  the  student, 


ENGLISH  IN  SCHOOLS. 


33 


perhaps  unconsciously,  with  the  notion  that  men  are  to 
“ laugh  by  precept  only,  and  shed  tears  by  rule  ” ; a sort  of 
laughter  and  tears  from  which  I shall  beg  to  be  excused. 
On  this  point,  my  first,  second,  and  third  counsel  is,  — 

the  live  current  quaff, 

And  let  the  groveller  sip  his  stagnant  pool, 

In  fear  that  else,  when  Critics  grave  and  cool 
Have  killed  him,  Scorn  should  write  his  epitaph. 

Against  the  course  I have  been  marking  out,  the  objection 
is  sometimes  urged  that  it  would  cut  pupils  off  from  contem- 
porary authors.  It  would  do  so  indeed,  and  I like  it  the 
better  for  that.  I have  already  implied  that  no  literary 
workmanship,  short  of  the  best  there  is  to  be  had,  ought  to 
be  drawn  upon  for  use  in  school.  For  the  natural  alliance 
of  taste  and  morals  is  much  closer  than  most  people  suppose. 
In  fact,  taste  is,  in  my  account,  a kind  of  intellectual  con- 
science : downright,  perfect  honesty  is  the  first  principal  of 
it ; solidity  is  its  prime  law ; and  all  sorts  of  pretence,  affec- 
tation, and  sham  are  its  aversion  : so  that  it  amounts  to  about 
the  same  thing  as  the  perfect  manliness  which  I find  in  Web- 
ster’s style.  — Now,  for  the  due  approval  of  excellence  in 
literary  art,  a longer  time  than  the  individual  life  is  commonly 
required.  Of  the  popular  writers  now  living,  probably  not 
one  in  five  hundred  will  be  heard  of  thirty  years  hence.  I 
have  myself  outlived  two  generations  of  just  such  immortal 
writers,  — whole  regiments  of  them.  Of  course  there  are 
fashions  in  literature,  as  in  other  things.  These  are  apt  to  be 
bad  enough  at  the  best,  — bad  enough  anywhere ; but  the 
school  is  just  the  last  place,  except  the  church,  where  they 
ought  to  be  encouraged.  Be  assured  that,  in  the  long  run, 
it  will  not  pay  to  have  our  children  in  school  making 
acquaintance  with  the  fashionable  writers  of  the  day.  For, 


34 


GENERAL  PREFACE. 


long  before  the  pupils  now  in  school  reach  maturity,  another 
set  of  writers  will  be  in  popular  vogue ; their  tenure  to  be 
equally  transient  in  turn. 

Unquestionably  the  right  way  in  this  matter  is,  to  start  the 
young  with  such  authors  as  have  been  tested  and  approved 
by  a large  collective  judgment.  For  it  is  not  what  pleases  at 
first,  but  what  pleases  permanently,  that  the  human  mind 
cares  to  keep  alive.  What  has  thus  withstood  the  wear  of 
time  carries  solid  proof  of  having  strength  and  virtue  in  it. 
For  example,  poetry  that  has  no  holiness  in  it  may  be,  for  it 
often  has  been,  vastly  popular  in  its  day ; but  it  has  and  can 
have  no  lasting  hold  on  the  heart  of  man.  True,  there  may 
be  good  books  written  in  our  day ; I think  there  are  : but 
there  needs  a longer  trial  than  one  generation  to  certify  us 
of  the  fact,  so  as  to  warrant  us  in  adopting  an  author  for 
standard  use.  And  that  a new  book  seems  to  us  good,  may 
be  in  virtue  of  some  superficial  prepossession  which  a larger 
trial  will  utterly  explode.  We  need  better  assurance  than 
that. 

It  is  indeed  sometimes  urged  that,  if  the  young  be  thus 
trained  up  with  old  authors,  they  will  be  in  danger  of  falling 
behind  the  age.  But  it  is  not  so.  The  surest  way  of  coming 
at  such  a result  is  by  pre-engaging  them  with  the  literary 
freaks  and  fashions  and  popularities  of  the  day.  To  hold 
them  aloof  from  such  flitting  popularities,  to  steep  their  minds 
in  the  efficacy  of  such  books  as  have  always  been,  and  are 
likely  to  be,  above  the  fashion  of  the  day,  — this  is  the  true 
course  for  setting  them  in  advance  of  the  time  ; and,  unless 
they  be  set  in  advance  of  it,  they  will  certainly  fail  to  keep 
abreast  with  it.  For  the  wisdom  that  has  had  the  long  and 
strong  apj)roval  of  the  past,  is  most  likely  to  be  the  wisdom 
of  the  future ; and  the  way  to  keep  pace  with  the  age  is  by 


ENGLISH  IN  SCHOOLS. 


35 


dwelling  with  its  wisdom,  not  with  its  folly.  In  fact,  a taste 
for  the  shifting  literary  fashions  and  popularities  of  the  hour 
springs  from  shallowness  and  leads  to  shallowness.  And  to 
knit  your  pupils  up  close  with  old  standards,  is  the  best 
thing  you  can  do  for  them,  both  mentally  and  morally. 

And  I confess  I like  to  see  the  young  growing  enthusiastic 
over  the  treasured  wisdom  and  eloquence  of  their  fore* 
fathers.  This  is  a natural  and  wholesome  inspiration,  and 
such  as  the  soul  can  hardly  drink-in  or  catch  without  being 
lifted  and  expanded  by  it.  Worth  much  for  the  knowledge 
it  furthers,  it  is  worth  far  more  for  the  manhood  it  quickens. 
And  I think  none  the  worse  of  it,  that  it  may  do  somewhat 
towards  chastising  down  the  miserable  conceit  now  so  rife 
amongst  us,  that  light  never  really  dawned  on  the  world  till 
about  that  glorious  time  when  our  eyes  were  first  opened, 
and  we  began  to  shed  our  wisdom  abroad.  To  be  sure,  the 
atmosphere  of  the  past  now  stands  impeached  as  being  a 
very  dull  and  sleepy  atmosphere  : nevertheless  I rather  like 
it,  and  think  I have  often  found  much  health  and  comfort  in 
breathing  it.  Some  old  writer  tells  us  that  ''  no  man  having 
drunk  old  wine  straightway  desireth  the  new ; for  he  saith 
the  old  is  better.”  I am  much  of  the  same  opinion.  In 
short,  old  wine,  old  books,  old  friends,  old  songs,  ''the 
precious  music  of  the  heart,”  are  the  wine,  the  books,  the 
friends,  the  songs  for  me  ! 

Besides,  we  have  quite  enough  of  the  present  outside  of 
the  school ; and  one  of  our  greatest  needs  at  this  very  time 
is  more  of  inspiration  from  the  past.  Living  too  much  in  the 
present  is  not  good  either  for  the  mind  or  for  the  heart : 
its  tendency  is  to  steep  the  soul  in  the  transient  popularities 
of  the  hour,  and  to  vulgarize  the  whole  man.  Not  that  the 
present  age  is  worse  than  former  ages ; it  may  even  be  better 


36 


GENERAL  PREFACE. 


as  a whole  : but  what  is  bad  or  worthless  in  an  age  gener- 
ally dies  with  the  age  : so  that  only  the  great  and  good  of 
the  past  touches  us  ; while  of  the  present  we  are  most  touched 
by  that  which  is  little  and  mean.  The  shriekings  and  jab- 
berings  of  an  age’s  folly  almost  always  drown,  for  the  time 
being,  the  eloquence  of  its  wisdom  : but  the  eloquence  lives 
and  speaks  after  the  jabberings  have  gone  silent,  God’s  air 
refusing  to  propagate  them.  So  let  our  youth  now  and  then 
breathe  and  listen  an  hour  or  two  in  the  old  intellectual 
fatherland,  where  all  the  foul  noises  have  long  since  died 
away,  leaving  the  pure  music  to  sound  up  full  and  clear. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Date  of  Composition. 


WELFTH  NIGHT ; or,  What  You  Will,  was  never 


1 printed,  that  we  know  of,  till  in  the  folio  of  162^.  In 
default  of  positive  information,  the  play  was  for  a long  time 
set  down  as  among  the  last- written  of, the  Poet’s  dramas. 
This  opinion  was  based  upon  such  slight  indications,  gath- 
ered from  the  work  itself,  as  could  have  no  weight  but  in  the 
absence  of  other  proofs.  No  contemporary  notice  of  the 
play  was  discovered  till  the  year  1828,  when  Collier,  delving 
among  the  musty  records  of  antiquity”  stored  away  in  the 
Museum,  lighted  upon  a manuscript  Diary,  written,  as  was 
afterwards  ascertained,  by  one  John  Manningham,  a barrister 
who  was  entered  at  the  Middle  temple  in  1597.  Under 
date  of  February  2d,  1602,  the  author  notes,  ''At  our  feast 
we  had  a play  called  Twelfth  Night,  or  What  You  Will' 
much  like  The  Comedy  of  Errors,  or  Menechmi  in  Plautus, 
but  most  like  and  near  to  that  in  the  Italian  called  InganniC 
The  writer  then  goes  on  to  state  such  particulars  of  the 
action,  as  fully  identify  the  play  which  he  saw  with  the  one 
now  under  consideration.  It  seems  that  the  benchers  and 
members  of  the  several  Inns-of-Court  were  wont  to  enrich 
their  convivialities  with  a course  of  wit  and  poetry.  And  the 
forecited  notice  ascertains  that  Shakespeare’s  Twelfth  Night 


4 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


was  performed  before  the  members  of  the  Middle  Temple 
on  the  old  Church  festival  of  the  Purification,  formerly  called 
Candlemas;  — an  important  link  in  the  course  of  festivities 
that  used  to  continue  from  Christmas  to  Shrovetide.  We 
thus  learn  that  one  of  the  Poet’s  sweetest  plays  was  enjoyed 
by  a gathering  of  his  learned  and  studious  contemporaries, 
at  a time  when  this  annual  jubilee  had  rendered  their  minds 
congenial  and  apt,  and  when  Christians  have  so  much  causp 
to  be  happy  and  gentle  and  kind,  and  therefore  to  cherish 
the  convivial  delectations  whence  kindness  and  happiness 
naturally  grow. 

As  to  the  date  of  the  composition,  we  have  little  difficulty 
in  fixing  this  somewhere  between  the  time  when  the  play  was 
acted  at  the  Temple  and  the  year  1598.  In  iii.  2,  when 
Malvolio  is  at  the  height  of  his  ludicrous  beatitude,  Maria 
says  of  him,  ''  He  does  smile  his  face  into  more  lines  than  are 
in  the  new  map,  with  the  augmentation  of  the  Indies.”  In 
1598  was  published  the  second  edition  of  Hakluyt’s  Voyages, 
with  a map  exactly  answering  to  Maria’s  description.  This 
was  the  first  map  of  the  world  in  which  the  Eastern  Islands 
were  included.  So  that  the  allusion  can  hardly  be  to  any 
thing  else  ; and  the  words  7iew  map  would  seem  to  infer  that 
the  passage  was  written  not  long  after  the  appearance  of  the 
map  in  question. 

Again  : In  iii.  i,  the  Clown  says  to  Viola,  But,  indeed, 
words  are  very  rascals,  since  bonds  disgraced  them.”  This 
may  be  fairly  understood  as  referring  to  an  order  issued  by 
the  Privy  Council  in  June,  1600,  and  laying  very  severe  re- 
strictions upon  stage  performances.  This  order  prescribes 
that  there  shall  be  about  the  city  two  houses  and  no  more, 
allowed  to  serve  for  the  use  of  common  stage  plays  ” ; that 
‘‘  the  two  several  companies  of  players,  assigned  unto  the 


rNTRODUCTION. 


5 


two  houses  allowed,  may  play  each  of  them  in  their  several 
houses  twice  a-week,  and  no  oftener  ” ; and  that  “ they  shall 
forbear  altogether  in  the  time  of  Lent,  and  likewise  at  such 
time  and  times  as  any  extraordinary  sickness  or  infection  of 
disease  shall  appear  to  be  in  or  about  the  city.”  The  order 
was  directed  to  the  principal  magistrates  of  the  city  and 
suburbs,  “ strictly  charging  them  to  see  to  the  execution  of 
the  same  ” ; and  it  is  plain,  that  if  rigidly  enforced  it  would 
have  amounted  almost  to  a total  suppression  of  play-houses, 
as  the  expenses  of  such  establishments  could  hardly  have 
been  met,  in  the  face  of  so  great  drawbacks. 

Therewithal  it  is  to  be  noted  that  the  Puritans  were  spe- 
cially forward  and  zealous  in  urging  the  complaints  which  put 
the  Privy  Council  upon  issuing  this  stringent  process ; and 
it  will  hardly  be  questioned  that  the  character  of  Malvolio 
was  partly  meant  as  a satire  on  that  remarkable  people. 
That  the  Poet  should  be  somewhat  provoked  at  their  action 
in  bringing  about  such  tight  restraints  upon  the  freedom  of 
his  art,  was  certainly  natural  enough.  Nor  is  it  a small  ad- 
dition to  their  many  claims  on  our  gratitude,  that  their  apt- 
ness to  “ think,  because  they  were  virtuous,  there  should  be 
no  more  cakes  and  ale,”  had  the  effect  of  calling  forth  so 
rich  and  withal  so  good-natured  a piece  of  retaliation.  Per- 
haps it  should  be  remarked  further,  that  the  order  in  ques- 
tion, though  solicited  by  the  authorities  of  the  city,  was  not 
enforced ; for  even  at  that  early  date  those  magistrates  had 
hit  upon  the  method  of  stimulating  the  complaints  of  dis- 
' contented  citizens  till  orders  were  taken  for  removing  the 
alleged  grievances,  and  then  of  letting  such  orders  sleep, 
lest  the  enforcing  of  them  should  hush  those  complaints,  and 
thus  take  away  all  pretext  for  keeping  up  the  agitation. 


6 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


Originals  of  the  Story, 

The  story  upon  which  the  more  serious  parts  of  Twelfth 
Night  were  founded  appears  to  have  been  a general  favour- 
ite before  and  during  Shakespeare’s  time.  It  is  met  with  in 
various  forms  and  under  various  names  in  the  Italian, 
French,  and  English  literature  of  that  period.  The  earliest 
form  of  it  known  to  us  is  in  Bandello’s  collection  of  novels. 
From  the  Italian  of  Bandello  it  was  transferred,  with  certain 
changes  and  abridgments,  into  the  French  of  Belleforest,  and 
makes  one  in  his  collection  of  Tragical  Histories,  From 
one  or  the  other  of  these  sources  the  tale  was  borrowed 
again  by  Barnabe  Rich,  and  set  forth  as  The  History  of 
Apolonius  and  Silla  ; making  the  second  in  his  collection  of 
tales  entitled  Fai'ewell  to  the  Military  Profession,  which  was 
first  printed  in  1581. 

Until  the  discovery  of  Manningham’s  Diary,  Shakespeare 
was  not  supposed  to  have  gone  beyond  these  sources,  and  it 
was  thought  something  uncertain  to  which  of  these  he  was 
most  indebted  for  the  raw  material  of  his  play.  It  is  now 
held  doubtful  whether  he  drew  from  either  of  them.  The 
passage  I have  quoted  from  that  Diary  notes  a close  resem- 
blance of  Twelfth  Night  Vo  an  Italian  play  ‘^called  InganniT 
This  has  had  the  effect  of  directing  attention  to  the  Italian 
theatre  in  quest  of  his  originals.  Two  comedies  bearing  the 
title  of  GP  Inganni  have  been  found,  both  of  them  framed 
upon  the  novel  of  Bandello,  and  both  in  print  before  the 
date  of  Twelfth  Night.  These,  as  also  the  three  forms  of 
the  tale  mentioned  above,  all  agree  in  having  a brother  and 
sister,  the  latter  in  male  attire,  and  the  two  bearing  so  close 
a resemblance  in  person  and  dress  as  to  be  indistinguish- 
able; upon  which  circumstance  some  of  the  leading  inci- 


INTRODUCTION. 


7 


dents  are  made  to  turn.  In  one  of  the  Italian  plays,  the 
sister  is  represented  as  assuming  the  name  of  Cesare  ; which 
is  so  like  Cesario,  the  name  adopted  by  Viola  in  her  dis- 
guise, that  the  one  may  well  be  thought  to  have  suggested 
the  other.  Beyond  this  point,  Twelfth  Night  shows  no  clear 
connection  with  either  of  those  plays. 

But  there  is  a third  Italian  comedy,  also  lately  brought  to 
light,  entitled  GV  Ingannati^  which  is  said  to  have  been 
first  printed  in  1537.  Here  the  traces  of  indebtedness  are 
much  clearer  and  more  numerous.  I must  content  myself  1 Sa 
with  abridging  the  Rev.  Joseph  Hunter’s  statement  of  the  j 
matter.  In  the  Italian  play,  a brother  and  sister,  named  ' ^ | 

Fabritio  and  Lelia,  are  separated  at  the  sacking  of  Rome  in 


1527.  Lelia  is  carried  to  Modena,  where  a gentleman  re- 
sides, named  Flamineo,  to  whom  she  was  formerly  attached. 
She  disguises  herself  as  a boy,  and  enters  his  service.  Fla- 


mineo, having  forgotten  his  Lelia,  is  making  suit  to  Isabella,  a 
lady  of  Modena.  The  disguised  Lelia  is  employed  by  him 


I 


in  his  love-suit  to  Isabella,  who  remains  utterly  deaf  to  his 
passion,  but  falls  desperately  in  love  with  the  messenger. 
In  the  third  Act  the  brother  Fabritio  arrives  at  Modena,  and 
his  close  resemblance  to  Lelia  in  her  male  attire  gives  rise  to 
some  ludicrous  mistakes.  At  one  time,  a servant  of  Isa- 
bella’s meets  him  in  the  street,  and  takes  him  to  her  house, 
supposing  him  to  be  the  messenger ; just  as  Sebastian  is 
taken  for  Viola,  and  led  to  the  house  of  Olivia.  In  due 
time,  the  needful  recognitions  take  place,  whereupon  Isabella 
easily  transfers  her  affection  to  Fabritio,  and  Flamineo’s 
' heart  no  less  easily  ties  up  with  the  loving  and  faithful  Lelia. 

In  her  disguise,  Lelia  takes  the  name  of  Fabio  ; hence,  most 
1/  likely,  the  name  of  P'abian,  who  figures  as  one  of  Olivia’s 
servants.  The  Italian  play  has  also  a subordinate  character 


8 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


called  Pasquella,  to  whom  Maria  corresponds ; and  another 
named  Malevolti,  of  which  Malvolio  is  a happy  adaptation. 
All  which  fully  establishes  the  connection  between  the  Italian 
comedy  and  the  English.  But  it  does  not  follow  necessarily 
that  the  foreign  original  was  used  by  Shakespeare  ; so  much 
of  the  lighter  literature  of  his  time  having  perished,  that  we 
cannot  affirm  with  any  certainty  what  importations  from 
Italy  may  or  may  not  have  been  accessible  to  him  in  his 
native  tongue. 

As  for  the  more  comic  portions  of  Twelfth  Night,  — those 
in  which  Sir  Toby  Belch,  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek,  and  the 
Clown  figure  so  delectably,  — we  have  no  reason  for  believ- 
ing that  any  part  of  them  was  borrowed;  there  being  no 
hints  or  traces  of  any  thing  like  them  in  the  previous  ver- 
sions of  the  story,  or  in  any  other  book  or  writing  known  to 
us.  And  it  is  to  be  observed,  moreover,  that  the  Poet’s  bor- 
rowings, in  this  instance  as  in  others,  relate  only  to  the  plot 
of  the  work,  the  poetry  and  character  being  all  his  own ; 
and  that,  here  as  elsewhere,  he  used  what  he  took  merely  as 
the  canvas  whereon  to  pencil  out  and  express  the  breathing 
creatures  of  his  mind.  So  that  the  whole  workmanship  is 
just  as  original,  in  the  only  right  sense  of  that  term,  as  if  the 
story  and  incidents  had  been  altogether  the  children  of  his 
own  invention  : and  he  but  followed  his  usual  custom  of  so 
ordering  his  work  as  to  secure  whatever  benefit  might  accrue 
from  a sort  of  pre-established  harmony  between  his  subject 
and  the  popular  mind. 

Qualities  of  Style. 

I am  quite  at  a loss  to  conceive  why  Twelfth  Night  should 
ever  have  been  referred  to  the  Poet’s  latest  period  of  author- 
shij).  The  play  naturally  falls,  by  the  internal  notes  of  style. 


INTRODUCTION. 


9 


i temper,  and  poetic  grain,  into  the  middle  period  of  his  pro- 
!ductive  years.  It  has  no  such  marks  of  vast  but  immature 
powers  as  are  often  met  with  in  his  earlier  plays ; nor,  on  the 
other  hand,  any  of  ''  that  intense  idiosyncrasy  of  thought  and 
expression,  — that  unparallelled  fusion  of  the  intellectual 
with  the  passionate,” — which  distinguishes  his  later  ones. 
Every  thing  is  cajjga.  and  quiet^with  an  air  of  unrufHed 
serenity  and  composure  about  it,  as  if  the  Poet  had  pur- 
posely taken  to  such  matter  as  he  could  easily  mould into 

graceful  and  entertaining  forms ; thus  exhibiting  none  of 
that  crushing  muscularity  of  mind  to  which  the  hardest  ma- 
terials afterwards  or  elsewhere  became  as  limber  and  pliant 
as  clay  in  the  hands  of  a potter.  Yet  the  play  has  a marked 
severity  of  tas^  ; the  style,  though  by  no  means  so  great  as 
in  some  others,  is  singularly  faultless ; the  graces  of  wit  and 
poetry  are  distilled  into  it  with  indescribable  delicacy,  as  if 
they  came  from  a hand  at  once  the  most  plentiful  and  the 
most  sparing : in  short,  the  work  is  everywhere  replete  with 
''the  modest  charm  of  not  too  much” ; its  beauty,  like  that 
of  the  heroine,  being  of  the  still,,  deep,  retiring  sort,  which  it 
takes  one  long  to  find,  for  ever  to  exhaust,  and  which  can  be 
fully  caught  only  by  the  reflective  imagination  in  " the  quiet 
and  still  air  of  delightful  studies.”  Thus  all  thing” 
posed  in  most  happy  keeping  with  each  other,  and 


in  the  blandest  proportion  of  Art ; so  as  to  illustrate  how 


Grace,  laughter,  and  discourse  may  meet, 
And  yet  the  beauty  not  go  less ; 

For  what  is  noble  should  be  sweet. 


lO 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


Sir  Toby  Belch. 

If  the  characters  of  this  play  are  generally  less  interesting 
in  themselves  than  some  we  meet  with  elsewhere  in  the  Poet’s 
works,  the  defect  is  pretty  well  made  up  by  the  felicitous 
grouping  of  them.  Their  very  diversities  of  temper  and  pur- 
pose are  made  to  act  as  so  many  mutual  affinities ; and  this/ 
too  in  a manner  so  spontaneous  that  we  see  not  how  they 
could  possibly  act  otherwise.  For  brc^^comic—effect,  the 
cluster  of  which  Sir  Toby  is  jhe  centfe^'airb'f  them  drawn 
in  clear  j^et  delicate  colours  — is  inferior  only  to  the  unpar- 
alleled^ assemblage  that  makes  rich  the  air  of  Eastcheap.  Of 
Sir  Toby  himself — that  most  whimsical,  madcap,  frolicsome 
old  topj£iv.§Q  Ml  of  antics  and  fond  of  sprees,  with  a plentiful 
stock  of  wit,  which  is  kept  in  motion  by  an  equally  plentiful 
lack  of  money  — it  is  enough  to  say,  with  Verplanck,  that 
he  certainly  comes  out  of  the  same  associations  where  the 
Poet  saw  Falstaff  hold  his  revels  ” ; and  that,  though  ''not 
Sir  John,  nor  a fainter  sketch  of  him,  yet  he  has  an  o^d  sort 
of  a family  likeness  to  him.”  Sir  Toby  has  a decided  pen- 
chant iox  practical  jokes  ; though  rather  because  he  takes  a 
sort  of  disinterested  pleasure  in  them,  than  because  he  loves 
to  see  himself  in  the  process  of  engineering  them  through  : for 
he  has  not  a particle  of  ill-nature  in  him.  Though  by  no 
means  a coward  himself,  he  nevertheless  enjoys  the  exposure 
of  cowardice  in  others  ; yet  this  again  is  not  so  much  because 
such  exposure  feeds  his  self-esteem,  as  because  he  delights 
in  the  gamFTor  its  own  saKe,  and  for  the  nimble  pastime  it 
yields  to  his  faculties  : that  is,  his  impulses  seem  to  rest  in  it 
cus  an  ultimate  object,  or  a part  of  what  is  to  him  the  sutmnum 
bonuni  of  ^ife.  And  it  is  much  the  same  with  his  addiction  | 
to  vinous  revelry,  and  to  the  moister  kind  of  minstrelsy ; an 


INTRODUCTION. 


r I 

addiction  that  proceeds  in  part  from  his^keen  gij§tj2£iiuu,_Bnd 
I ' he  happmess  he  finds  in  making  sport  for  others  as  well  as 
for  himself : he  will  drink  till  the  world  turns  £Ound,  but  not 
unless  others  are  at  hand  to  enjoy  the  turning  along  with 
him. 

Sir  Andrew  the  Fatuous. 

Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek,  the  spiring,  lackadaisical,  self- 
satisfied  echo  and  sequel. ofiSir -Toby,  fitly  serves  the  double 
purpose  of  a butt  and  a foil^  to  the  latter,  at  once  drawing 
him  out  and  setting  him  off. ) Ludicrously  proud  of  the  most 
petty,  childish  irregularities,  which,  however,  his  natural  fatu- 
ity  keeps  him  from  acting,  and  barely  suffers  him  to  affect, 
on  this  point  he  reminds  us  of  that  impressive  imbecility^ 
Abraham  Slender ; yet  not  in  such  sort  as  to  encroach  at  all 
on  Slender’s  province.  There  can  scarcely  be  found  a richer 
piece  of  diversion  than  Sir  Toby’s  practice  in  dandling  Sir 
Andrew  out  of  his  money,  and  paying  him  off  with  the  odd 
hope  of  gaining  Olivia’s  hand.  And  the  funniest  of  it  is, 
that  while  Sir  Toby  understands  him  thoroughly  he  has  not 
himself  the  slighest  suspicion  or  inkling  of  what  he  is ; he  . 
being  as  confident  of  his  own  wit  as  others  are  of  his  want 
of  it.  Nor  are  we  here  touched  with  any  revulsions  of  moral: 
feeling,  such  as  might  disturb  our  enjoyment  of  their  fellow- 
ship ; on  the  contrary,  we  sympathize  with  Sir  Toby’s  sport, 
without  any  reluctances  of  virtue  or  conscience.  To  our 
sense  of  the  matter,  he  neither  has  nor  ought  to  have 
any  scruples  or  compunctions  about  the  game  he  is  hunting. 
For,  in  truth,  his  dealing  with  Sir  Andrew  is  all  in  the  way  of 
f^ir  jexchange.  He  gives  as  much  pleasure  as  he  gets.  If  he 
is  cheating  Sir  Andrew  out  of  his  money,  he  is  also  cheating 
him  into  the  proper  felicity  of  his  nature,  and  thus  paying 


12 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


him  with  the  equivalent  best  suited  to  his  capacity.  It  suffice  *5 
that,  in  being  stuffed  with  the  preposterous  delusion  abof  " 
Olivia,  Sir  Andrew  is  rendered  supremely  happy  at  the  time  ^ 
while  he  manifestly  has  not  force  enough  to  remember  it  with 
any  twinges  of  shame  or  self-reproach.  And  we  feel  that, 
while  clawing  his  fatuous  crotchets  and  playing  out  his 
absurdities.  Sir  Toby  is  really  doing  Sir  Andrew  no  wrong, 
since  the  latter  is  then  most  himself,  is  in  his  happiest  mood, 
and  in  the  most  natural  freedom  of  his  indigenous  gifts  and 
graces.  All  which  quite  precludes  any  division  of  our  sym- 
pathies, and  just  makes  our  comic  enjoyment  of  their  inter- 
course simply  perfect. 

^Malvolio  the  Pure. 

Malvolio,  the  self-love-sick  Steward,  has  hardly  had  justice 
done  him,  his  bad  qualities  being  indeed  of  just  the  kind 
to  defeat  the  recognition  of  his  good  ones.  He  represents 
a perpetual  class  of  people,  whose  leading  characteristic  is 
moral  demonstrativeness,  and  who  are  never  satisfied  with  a 
law  that  leaves  thSrTfree  to  do  right,  unless  it  also  give 
them  the  power  to  keep  others  from  doing  wrong.  To 
quote  again  from  Verplanck,  Malvolio  embodies  ^^a  con- 
ception as  true  as  it  is  original  and  droll ; and  its  truth  may 
still  be  frequently  attested  by  comparison  with  real  Malvo- 
lios,  to  be  found  everywhere  from  humble  domestic  life  up 
to  the  high  places  of  learning,  of  the  State,  and  even  of 
the  Church.”  From  the  central  idea  of  the  character  it 
follows  in  course  that  the  man  has  too.  much,.conscience  to 
mind  his  own  business,  and  is  too  pure  to  tolerate  mirth  in 
ojdiQrs,  because  too  much  swollen  and  stiffened  with  self-love 
to  be  merry  liimself.  His  liighest  exhilaration  is  when  he 
contemplates  the  image  of  his  self-imputed  virtues  : he  live^  , 


INTRODUCTION. 


13 


10  entranced  with  the  beauty  of  his  own  inward  parts,  that 
he  would  fain  hold  himself  the  wrong  side  out,  to  the  end 
that  all  the  world  may  duly  appreciate  and  admire  him. 
Naturally,  too,  the  more  he  hangs  over  his  own  moral  beauty, 
the  more  pharisaical  and  sanctimonious  he  becomes  in  his 
opinion  and  treatment  of  others.  For  the  glass  which  mag- 
fies  to  his  view  whatever  of  good  there  may  be  in  himself, 
also  serves  him  as  an  inverted  telescope  to  minify  the  good 
of  those  about  him ; and,  which  is  more,  the  self-same  spirit 
that  prompts  him  to  invert  the  instrument  upon  other  men’s 
virtues,  naturally  moves  him  to  turn  the  big  end  upon  their 
faults  and  the  small  end  upon  his  own.  Of  course,  there- 
fore, he  is  never  without  food  for  censure  and  reproof  save 
when  he  is  alone  with  himself,  where,  to  be  sure,  his  intense 
consciousness  of  virtue  just  breathes  around  him  the  air  of 
Paradise.”  Thus  his  continual  frothing  over  with  righteous 
indignation  all  proceeds  from  the  yeast  of  pride  and  self- 
importance  working  mightily  within  him.  Mapa,  whose 
keen  eye  and  sure  tongue  seldom  fail  to  hit  the  wTiite  of  the 
mark,  describes  him  as  not  being  any  thing  constantly,  but 
a time-pleaser.”  And  it  is  remarkable  that  the  emphasized 
moral  rigidity  of  such  men  is  commonly  but  the  outside  of  a 
mind  secretly  intent  on  the  service  of  the  time,  and  caring 
little  for  any  thing  but  to  trim  its  sails  to  the  winds  of  self-_ 
interest  and  self-ady^ncement.  Yet  Malvolio  is  really  a man 
^•f  no  little  talent  and  accomplishment,  as  he  is  also  one  of 
marked  skill  fidelity,  and  rectitude  in  his  calling ; so  that  he 
would  be  a right-worthy  person  all  round,  but  for  his  inordf 
nate  craving 

to  be  dress’d  in  an  opinion 
Of  wisdom,  gravity,  profound  conceit ; 

As  who  should  say,  I am  Sir  Oracle, 

A ltd  when  / ope  my  lips,  let  no  dog  bark. 


14 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


This  overweening  moral  coxcombry  is  not  indeed  to  be  rec  ^ 
oned  among  the  worst  of  crimes ; but  perhaps  there  is  no 
other  one  fault  so  generally  or  so  justly  offensive,  and  there- 
fore none  so  apt  to  provoke  the  merciless  retaliations  of 
mockery  and  practical  wit. 


Maria  the  Gull-Catcher. 


Maria,  the  little  structure  packed  so  close  with  mental 
spicery,  has  read  Malvolio  through  and  through ; she  knows 
him  without  and  within ; and  she  never  speaks  of  him,  but 
that  her  speech  touches  the  very  pith  of  the  theme ; as  when 
she  describes  him  to  be  one  that  cons  State  without  book, 
and  utters  it  by  great  swaths ; the  best-persuaded  of  himself, 
so  crammed,  as  he  thinks,  with  excellences, . that  it  is  his 
ground  of  faith  that  all  who  look  on  him  love  him.’*  Her 
quaint  stratagem  of  the  letter  has  and  is  meant  to  have  the 
effect  of  disclosing  to  others  what  her  keener  insight  has  long 
since  discovered ; and  its  working  lifts  her  into  a model  of 
arch,  roguish  mischievousness,  with  wit  to  plan  and  art  to 
execute  whatsoever  falls  within  the  scope  of  such  a charac- 
ter. Her  native  sagacity  has  taught  her  how  to  touch  him  in 
just  the  right  spots  to  bring  out  the  reserved  or  latent  notes 
of  his  character.  Her  diagnosis  of  his  inward  state  is  indeed 
perfect ; and  when  she  makes  the  letter  instruct  him,  — Be 
opposite  with  a kinsman,  surly  with  servants  ; let  thy  tongue 
twang  arguments  of  State  ; put  thyself  into  the  trick  of  singu- 
larity,”— her  arrows  are  so  aimed  as  to  cleave  the  pin  of  his 
most  characteristic  predispositions. 

The  scenes  where  the  waggish  troop,  headed  by  this 
noble  gull-catcher  ” and  most  excellent  devil  of  wit^ 
bewitch  Malvolio  into  ‘^a  contemplative  idiot,”  practisini 
upon  his  vanity  and  conceit  till  he  seems  ready  ^o  burs' 


V 


INTRODUCTION. 


IS 


with  an  ecstasy  of  self-consequence,  and  they  laugh  them- 
selves into  stitches  ” over  him,  are  almost  painfully  divert- 
ing. It  is  indeed  sport  to  see  him  ^‘jet  under  his  advanced 
plumes  ” ; and  during  this  part  of  the  operation  our  hearts 
freely  keep  time  with  theirs  who  are  tickling  out  his  buds 
into  full-blown  thoughts  : at  length,  however,  when  he  is 
under  treatment  as  a madman,  our  delight  in  his  exposure 
passes  over  into  commiseration  of  his  distress,  and  we  feel 
a degree  of  resentment  towards  his  ingenious  persecutors. 
The  Poet,  no  doubt,  meant  to  push  the  joke  upon  him  so  far 
as  to  throw  our  sympathies  over  on  his  side,  and  make  us 
take  his  part.  For  his  character  is  such  that  perhaps  nothing 
but  excessive  reprisals  on  his  vanity  and  conceit  could  make 
us  do  justice  to  his  real  worth. 


Fabian  and  the  Clown. 

The  shrewd,  mirth-loving  Fabian,  who  in  greedy  silence 
devours  up  fun,  tasting  it  too  far  down  towards  his  knees  to 
give  any  audible  sign  of  the  satisfaction  it  yields  him,  is  an 
apt  and  willing  agent  in  putting  the  stratagem  through.  If 
he  does  nothing  towards  inventing  or  cooking  up  the  repast, 
he  is  at  least  a happy  and  genial  partaker  of  the  banquet  that 
others  have  prepared.  — Feste,  the  jester,  completes  this  illus- 
trious group  of  laughing  and  laughter-moving  personages. 
Though  not,  perhaps,  quite  so  wise  a fellow  as  Touchstone, 
of  As-  You-Like-It  memory,  nor  endowed  with  so  fluent  and 
racy  a fund  of  humour,  he  nevertheless  has  enough  of  both 
to  meet  all  the  demands  of  his  situation.  If,  on  the  one^ 
hand,  he  never  launches  the  ball  of  fun,  neither,  on  the  other, 
does  he  ever  fail  to  do  his  part  towards  keeping  it  rolling, 
n the  whole,  he  has  a sufficiently  facile  and  apposite  gift  at 
esting  out  philosophy,  and  moralizing  the  scenes  where  he 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


I6 


i 


moves  ; and  whatever  he  has  in  that  line  is  perfectly  original 
with  him.  It  strikes  me,  withal,  as  a rather  noteworthy  cir- 
cumstance that  both  the  comedy  and  the  romance  of  the 
play  meet  together  in  him,  as  in  their  natural  home.  He  is 
indeed  a right  jolly  fellow ; no  note  of  mirth  springs  up  but 
he  has  answering  susceptibilities  for  it  to  light  upon  ; but  he 
also  has  at  the  same  time  a delicate  vein  of  tender  pathos  in 
him ; as  appears  by  the  touchingly-plaintive  song  he  sings, 
which,  by  the  way,  is  one  of 

The  very  sweetest  Fancy  culls  or  frames, 

Where  tenderness  of  heart  is  strong  and  deep. 

I am  not  supposing  this  to  be  the  measure  of  his  lyrical  in- 
vention, for  the  song  probably  is  not  of  his  making ; but  the 
selection  marks  at  least  the  setting  of  his  taste,  or  rather  the 
tuning  of  his  soul,  and  thus  discovers  a choice  reserve  of 
feeling  laid  up  in  his  breast. 


The  Comic  Proceedings. 

Such  are  the  scenes,  such  the  characters  that  enliven 
Olivia’s  mansion  during  the  play:  Olivia  herself,  calm, 
cheerful,  of  ''smooth,  discreet,  and  stable  bearing,”  hover- 
ing about  them ; sometimes  unbending,  never  losing  her 
dignity  among  them ; often  checking,  oftener  enjoying  their 
merry-makings,  and  occasionally  emerging  from  her  seclusion 
to  be  plagued  by  the  Duke’s  message  and  bewitched  by  his 
messenger  : and  Viola,  always  perfect  in  her  part,  yet  always 
shrinking  from  it,  appearing  among  them  from  time  to  time 
on  her  embassies  of  love  ; sometimes  a partaker,  sometimes 
a provoker,  sometimes  the  victim  of  their  mischievous  sport. 

All  this  array  of  comicalities,  exhilarating  as  it  is  in  itseli 
is  rendered  doubly  so  by  the  frequent  changes  and  playings- 


INTRODUCTION. 


17 

in  of  poetry  breathed  from  the  sweetest  spots  of  romance, 
and  which  gives  a very  echo  to  the  seat  where  Love  is 
throned  ” ; ideas  and  images  of  beauty  creeping  and  stealing 
over  the  mind  with  footsteps  so  soft  and  delicate  that  we 
scarce  know  what  touches  us,  — the  motions  of  one  that  had 
learned  to  tread 

As  if  the  wind,  not  he,  did  walk, 

Nor  press’d  a flower,  nor  bow’d  a stalk. 

Upon  this  portion  of  the  play  Hazlitt  has  some  spirited  re- 
marks : We  have  a friendship  for  Sir  Toby ; we  patronize 
Sir  Andrew ; we  have  an  understanding  with  the  Clown,  a 
sneaking  kindness  for  Maria  and  her  rogueries ; we  feel  a 
regard  for  Malvolio,  and  sympathize  with  his  gravity,  his 
smiles,  his  cross-garters,  his  yellow  stockings,  and  imprison- 
ment : but  there  is  something  that  excites  in  us  a stronger 
feeling  than  all  this.’’ 

^ Olivia  the  Countess. 

Olivia  is  a considerable  instance  how  much  a fair  and 
candid  setting-forth  may  do  to  render  an  ordinary  person 
attractive,  and  shows  that  for  the  homebred  comforts  and 
fireside  tenour  of  life  such  persons  after  all  are  apt  to  be  the 
best.  Nor,  though  something  commonplace  in  her  make- 
up, such  as  the  average  of  cultivated  womanhood  is  always 
found  to  be,  is  she  without  bright  and  penetrative  thoughts, 
whenever  the  occasion  calls  for  them.  Her  reply  to  the 
Steward,  when,  by  way  of  scorching  the  Clown,  he  ‘‘mar- 
vels that  her  ladyship  takes  delight  in  such  a barren  rascal,” 
gives  the  true  texture  of  her  mind  and  moral  frame  : “ O, 
you  are  sick  of  self-love,  Malvolio,  and  taste  with  a dis- 
tempered appetite.  To  be  generous,  guiltless,  and  of  free 


i8 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


disposition,  is  to  take  those  things  for  biid- bolts  that  yon 
deem  cannon-bullets.  There  is  no  slander  in  an  allowed 
Fool,  though  he  do  nothing  but  rail ; nor  no  railing  in  a 
knawn  discreet  man,  though  he  do  nothing  but  reprove.^’ 
Practical  wisdom  enough  to  make  the  course  of  any  house- 
hold run  smooth  ! The  instincts  of  a happy,  placid  temper 
have  taught  Olivia  that  there  is  as  little  of  Christian  virtue 
as  of  natural  benignity  in  stinging  away  the  spirit  of  kindness 
with  a tongue  of  acid  and  acrimonious  pietism.  Her  firm 
and  healthy  pulse  beats  in  sympathy  with  the  sportiveness  in 
which  the  proper  decorum  of  her  station  may  not  permit  her 
to  bear  an  active  part.  And  she  is  too  considerate,  withal, 
not  to  look  with  indulgence  on  the  pleasantries  that  are  partly 
meant  to  divert  her  thoughts,  and  air  off  a too  vivid  remem- 
brance of  her  recent  sorrows.  Besides,  she  has  gathered, 
even  under  the  discipline  of  her  own  afflictions,  that  as,  on 
the  one  hand,  what  Nature  makes  us  mourn  she  bids  us 
heal,”  so,  on  the  other,  the  free  hilarities  of  wit  and  humour, 
even  though  there  be  something  of  nonsense  mixed  up  with 
them,  are  a part  of  that  bland  philosophy  of  life  ” which 
helps  to  knit  us  up  in  the  unions  of  charity  and  peace  ; that 
they  promote  cheerfulness  of  temper,  smooth  down  the  lines 
of  care,  sweeten  away  the  asperities  of  the  mind,  make  the 
eye  sparkling  and  lustrous ; and,  in  short,  do  much  of  the 
very  best  stitching  in  the  embroidered  web  of  friendship  and* 
fair  society.  So  that  she  finds  abundant  motive  in  reason, 
with  no  impediment  in  religion,  to  refrain  from  spoiling  the  ^ 
merry  passages  of  her  friends  and  servants  by  looking  black 


or  sour  upon  them. 

Olivia  is  manifestly  somewhat  inclined  to  have  her  own 
way.  But  then  it  must  also  be  acknowledged  that  her  way 
is  pretty  apt  to  be  right.  This  wilfulness,  or  something  that 


n 


INTRODUCTION. 


19 


borders  upon  it,  is  shown  alike  in  her  impracticability  to  the 
Duke’s  solicitations,  and  in  her  pertinacity  in  soliciting  his  ^ 
messenger.  And  it  were  well  worth  the  while  to  know,  if  we 
could,  how  one  so  perverse  in  certain  spots  can  manage  not- 
withstanding to  be  so  agreeable  as  a whole.  Then  too,  if  it 
seems  rather  naughty  in  her  that  she  does  not  give  the  Duke 
a better  chance  to  try  his  power  upon  her,  she  gets  pretty 
well  paid  in  falling  a victim  to  the  eloquence  which  her 
obstinacy  stirs  up.  Nor  is  it  altogether  certain  whether  her 
conduct  springs  from  a pride  that  will  not  listen  where  her 
fancy  is  not  taken,  or  from  an  unambitious  modesty  that 
prefers  not  to  match  above  her  degree.”  Her  ‘^  beauty 
truly  blent,  whose  red  and  white  Nature’s  own  sweet  and 
cunning  hand  laid  on,”  saves  the  credit  of  the  fancy-smitten 
Duke  in  such  an  urgency  of  suit  as  might  else  breed  some 
question  of  his  manliness  ; while  her  winning  infirmity,  as  ex- 
pressed in  the  tender  violence  with  which  she  hastens  on  a 
contract  and  eternal  bond  of  love  ” with  the  astonished 
and  bewildered  Sebastian,  that  her  most  jealous  and  too 
doubtful  soul  may  live  at  peace,”  shows  how  well  the  stern- 
ness of  the  brain  may  be  tempered  into  amiability  by  the 
meekness  of  womanhood. 

Manifold  indeed  are  the  attractions  which  the  Poet  has 
shed  upon  his  heroes  and  heroines  ; yet  perhaps  the  learned 
spirit  of  the  man  is  more  wisely  apparent  in  the  home-keep- 
ing virtues  and  unobtrusive  beauty  of  his  average  characters. 
And  surely  the  contemplation  of  Olivia  may  well  suggest  the 
question,  whether  the  former  be  not  sometimes  too  admirable 
to  be  so  instructive  as  those  whose  graces  walk  more  in  the 
light  of  common  day.  At  all  events,  the  latter  may  best 
admonish  us, 

• How  Verse  may  build  a princely  throne 
On  humble  truth. 


20 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


^ Orsino  the  Duke. 


Similar  thoughts  might  aptly  enough  be  suggested  by  the 
Duke,  who,  without  any  very  splendid  or  striking  qualities, 
manages  somehow  to  be  a highly  agreeable  and  interesting 
person.  His  character  is  merely  that  of  an  accomplished 
gentleman,  enraptured  at  the  touch  of  music,  and  the  sport 
of  thick-thronging  fancies.  It  is  plain  that  Olivia  has  only 
enchanted  his  imagination,  not  won  his  heart ; though  he  is 
not  himself  aware  that  such  is  the  case.  This  fancy-sickness 
— for  it  appears  to  be  nothing  else  — naturally  renders  him 
somewhat  capricious  and  fantastical,  unstaid  and  skittish  in 
his  motions  ’’ ; and,  but  for  the  exquisite  poetry  which  it 
inspiies  him  to  utter,  would  rather  excite  our  mirth  than 
enlist  our  sympathy.  To  use  an  illustration  from  another 
play,  Olivia  is  not  so  much  his  Juliet  as  his  Rosaline  ; and 
perhaps  a secret  persuasion  to  that  effect  is  the  real  cause  of 
her  rejecting  his  suit.  Accordingly,  when  he  sees  her  placed 
beyond  his  hope,  he  has  no  more  trouble  about  her ; but 
turns,  and  builds  a true  affection  where,  during  the  preoc- 
cupancy of  his  imagination,  so  many  sweet  and  tender  ap- 
peals have  been  made  to  his  heart. 

In  Shakespeare’s  delineations  as  in  nature,  we  may  com- 
monly note  that  love,  in  proportion  as  it  is  deep  and  genu- 
ine, is  also  inward  and  reserved.  To  be  voluble,  to  be  fond 
of  spreading  itself  in  discourse,  or  of  airing  itself  in  the 
fineries  of  speech,  seems  indeed  quite  against  the  instinct 
of  that  passion ; and  its  best  eloquence  is  when  it  ties  up 
the  tongue,  and  steals  out  in  other  modes  of  expression,  the 
flushing  of  the  cheeks  and  the  mute  devotion  of  the  eyes. 
In  its  purest  forms,  it  is  apt  to  be  a secret  even  unto  itself, 
the  subjects  of  it  knowing  indeed  that  something  ails  them, 


\ 


INTRODUCTION. 


21 


but  not  knowing  exactly  what.  So  that  the  most  effective 
love-making  is  involuntary  and  unconscious.  And  I suspect 
that,  as  a general  thing,  if  the  true  lover’s  passion  be  not 
returned  before  it  is  spoken,  it  stands  little  chance  of  being 
returned  at  all. 

Now,  in  Orsino’s  case,  the  passion,  or  whatever  else  it 
may  be,  is  too  much  without  to  be  thoroughly  sound  within. 
Like  Malvolio’s  virtue,  it  is  too  glass-gazing>  too  much  en- 
amoured of  its  own  image,  and  renders  him  too  apprehensive 
that  it  will  be  the  death  of  him,  if  disappointed  of  its  object. 
Accordingly  he  talks  too  much  about  it,  and  his  talking 
about  it  is  too  ingenious  withal ; it  makes  his  tongue  run 
glib  and  fine  with  the  most  charming  divisions  of  poetic 
imagery  and  sentiment ; all  which  shrewdly  infers  that  he 
lacks  the  genuine  thing,  and  has  mistaken  something  else 
for  it.  Yet,  when  we  hear  him  dropping  such  riches  as  this, 

O,  when  mine  eyes  did  see  Olivia  first, 

Methought  she  purged  the  air  of  pestilence ! 

and  this, 

She  that  hath  a heart  of  that  fine  frame 
To  pay  this  debt  of  love  but  to  a brother, 

How  will  she  love  when  the  rich  golden  shaft 
Hath  kill’d  the  flock  of  all  affections  else 
That  live  in  her ! 

we  can  hardly  help  wishing  that  such  were  indeed  the  true 
vernacular  of  that  passion.  But  it  is  not  so,  and  on  the 
whole  it  is  much  better  than  so  : for  love,  that  which  is  rightly 
so  called,  uses  a diviner  language  even  than  that ; and  this 
it  does  when,  taking  the  form  of  religion,  it  sweetly  and  silently 
embodies  itself  in  deeds.  And  this  is  the  love  that  Southey 
had  in  mind  when  he  wrote. 


They  sin  who  tell  us  love  can  die. 


22 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


The  Heroine. 

In  Viola,  divers  things  that  were  else  not  a little  scattered 
are  thoroughly  composed ; her  character  being  the  unifying 
power  that  draws  all  the  parts  into  true  dramatic  consistency, 
Love-taught  herself,  it  was  for  her  to  teach  both  Orsino  and 
Olivia  how  to  bve  : indeed  she  plays  into  all  the  other  parts, 
causing  them  to  embrace  and  cohere  within  the  compass  of 
her  circulation.  And  yet,  like  some  subtile  agency,  working 
most  where  we  perceive  it  least,  she  does  all  this  without 
rendering  herself  a special  prominence  in  the  play. 

It  is  observable  that  the  Poet  has  left  it  uncertain  whether 
Viola  was  in  love  with  the  Duke  before  assuming  her  disguise, 
or  whether  her  heart  was  won  afterwards  by  reading  ''the 
book  even  of  his  secret  soul  ” while  wooing  another.  Nor 
does  it  much  matter  whether  her  passion  were  the  motive  or 
the  consequence  of  her  disguise,  since  in  either  case  such  a 
man  as  Olivia  describes  him  t ."  be  might  well  find  his  way  to 
tougher  hearts  than  Viola’s.  But  her  love  has  none  of  the 
skittishness  and  unrest  which  mark  the  Duke’s  passion  for 
Olivia : complicated  out  of  all  the  elements  of  her  being,  it 
is  strong  without  violence ; never  mars  the  innate  modesty 
of  her  character ; is  deep  as  life,  tender  as  infancy,  pure, 
peaceful,  and  unchangeable  as  truth. 

Mrs.  Jameson  ^ — who,  with  the  best  right  to  know  what 
belongs  to  woman,  unites  a rare  talent  for  taking  others  along 
with  her,  and  letting  them  see  the  choice  things  which  her  ap- 
prehensive eye  discerns,  and  who,  in  respect  of  Shakespeare’s 
heroines,  has  left  little  for  others  to  do  but  quote  her  words  — 
remarks  that  "in  Viola  a sweet  consciousness  of  her  feminin 
nature  is  for  ever  breaking  through  her  masquerade  : she  plays 
her  part  well,  but  never  forgets,  nor  allows  us  to  forget,  that 


INTRODUCTION. 


23 


she  is  playing  a part.”  And,  sure  enough,  every  thing  about 
her  save  her  dress  ‘^is  semblative  a woman’s  part  ” : she  has 
none  of  the  assumption  of  a pert,  saucy,  waggish  manhood, 
which  so  delights  us  in  Rosalind  in  As  You  Like  It ; but  she 
has  that  which,  if  not  better  in  itself,  is  more  becoming  in 
her,  — ^^the  inward  and  spiritual  grace  of  modesty  ” pervading 
all  she  does  and  says.  Even  in  her  railleries  with  the  comic 
characters  there  is  all  the  while  an  instinctive  drawing-back 
of  female  delicacy,  touching  our  sympathies,  and  causing  us 
to  feel  most  deeply  what  she  is,  when  those  with  whoiti  she 
is  playing  least  suspect  her  to  be  other  than  she  seems.  And 
the  same  is  true  concerning  her  passion,  of  which  she  never 
so  speaks  as  to  compromise  in  the  least  the  delicacies  and 
proprieties  of  her  sex;  yet  she  lets  fall  many  things  from 
which  the  Duke  easily  gathers  the  drift  and  quality  of  her 
feelings  directly  he  learns  what  she  is.  But  the  great  charm 
of  her  character  lies  in  a moral  rectitude  so  perfect  and  so 
pure  as  to  be  a secret  unto  itself ; a clear,  serene  composure 
of  truth,  mingling  so  freely  and  smoothly  with  the  issues  of 
life,  that  while,  and  perhaps  even  because  she  is  herself  un- 
conscious of  it,  she  is  never  once  tempted  to  abuse  or  to  shirk 
her  trust,  though  it  be  to  play  the  attorney  in  a cause  that 
makes  so  much  against  herself.  In  this  respect  she  presents 
an  instructive  contrast  to  Malvolio,  who  has  much  virtue  in- 
deed, yet  not  so  much  but  that  the  counter-pullings  have 
rendered  him  intensely  conscious  of  it,  and  so  drawn  him 
into  the  vice,  at  once  hateful  and  ridiculous,  of  moral  pride. 
The  virtue  that  fosters  conceit  and  censoriousness  is  like  a 
dyspeptic  stomach,  the  owner  of  which  is  made  all  too  sen- 
sible of  it  by  the  conversion  of  his  food  to  wind,  — a wind 
that  puffs  him  up.  On  the  other  hand,  a virtue  that  breathes 
so  freely  as  not  to  be  aware  of  its  breathing  is  the  right  moral 


24 


TWELFTH  NIGHT, 


analogue  of  a thoroughly  eupeptic  state ; as  the  healthy 
know  not  of  their  health,  but  only  the  sick.” 

Sundry  critics  have  censured,  some  of  them  pretty  sharply, 
the  improbability  involved  in  the  circumstance  of  Viola  and 
Sebastian  resembling  each  other  so  closely  as  to  be  mistaken 
the  one  for  the  other.  Even  so  just  and  liberal  a critic  as 
Hallam  has  stumbled  at  this  circumstance,  so  much  so  as 
quite  to  disconcert  his  judgment  of  the  play.  The  improba- 
bility is  indeed  palpable  enough ; yet  I have  to  confess  that 
it  has  never  troubled  me,  any  more  than  certain  things  not 
less  improbable  in  As  You  Like  It,  But  even  if  it  had,  still 
I should  not  hold  it  any  just  ground  for  faulting  the  Poet,  in- 
asmuch as  the  circumstance  was  an  accepted  article  in  the 
literary  faith  of  his  time.  But  indeed  this  censure  proceeds 
from  that  old  heresy  which  supposes  the  proper  effect  of  a 
work  of  art  to  depend  on  the  imagined  reality  of  the  matter 
presented ; that  is,  which  substitutes  the  delusions  of  insan- 
ity for  the  half-voluntary  illusions  of  a rational  and  refining 
pleasure, 

Sebastian. 

Of  Sebastian  himself  the  less  need  be  said,  forasmuch  as 
the  leading  traits  of  his  character,  in  my  conception  of  it, 
have  been  substantially  evolved  in  what  I have  said  of  his 
sister.  For  the  two  are  really  as  much  alike  in  the  inward 
texture  of  their  souls  as  in  their  visible  persons;  at  least 
their  mutual  resemblance  in  the  former  respect  is  as  close 
as  were  compatible  with  proper  manliness  in  the  one,  and 
proper  womanliness  in  the  other.  Personal  bravery,  for 
example,  is  as  characteristic  of  him  as  modesty  is  of  her. 
In  simplicity,  in  gentleness,  in  rectitude,  in  delicacy  of 
mind,  and  in  all  the  particulars  of  what  may  be  termed  com' 


INTRODUCTION. 


plexional  harmony  and  healthiness  of  nature,  — in  these 
they  are  as  much  twins  as  in  birth  and  feature.  Therewithal 
they  are  both  alike  free  from  any  notes  of  a pampered  self- 
consciousness,  Yet  in  all  these  points  a nice  discrimina- 
tion of  the  masculine  and  feminine  proprieties  is  everywhere 
maintained.  In  a word,  there  is  no  confusion  of  sex  in  the 
delineation  of  them : as  like  as  they  are,  without  and  within, 
the  man  and  the  woman  are  nevertheless  perfectly  differen- 
tiated in  all  the  essential  attributes  of  each. 

The  conditions  of  the  plot  did  not  require  nor  even 
permit  Sebastian  to  be  often  or  much  in  sight.  We  have 
indeed  but  little  from  him,  but  that  little  is  intensely  charged 
with  significance  ; in  fact,  I hardly  know  of  another  instance 
in  Shakespeare  where  so  much  of  character  is  accomplished 
in  so  few  words.  The  scene  where  he  is  first  met  with  con- 
sists merely  of  a brief  dialogue  between  him  and  Antonio, 
the  man  who  a little  before  has  recovered  him  from  the 
perils  of  shipwreck.  He  there  has  neither  time  nor  heart 
for  any  thing  but  gratitude  to  his  deliverer,  and  sorrow  at  the 
supposed  death  of  his  sister : yet  his  expression  of  these  is 
so  ordered  as  to  infer  all  the  parts  of  a thorough  gentleman ; 
the  efficacies  of  a generous  nature,  of  good  breeding,  of 
liberal  culture,  and  of  high  principle,  all  concurring  in  one 
result,  and  thus  filling  up  the  right  idea  of  politeness  as 
benevolence  guided  by  intelligence.^’ 


\i 


General  Characteristics. 


The  society  delineated  in  this  play  is  singularly  varied 
and  composite  ; the  names  of  the  persons  being  a mixture 
of  Spanish,  Italian,  and  English.  Though  the  scene  is  laid 
in  Illyria,  the  period  of  the  action  is  undefined,  and  the 
manners  and  costumes  are  left  in  the  freedom  of  whatever 


26 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


time  we  may  choose  antecedent  to  that  of  the  composition, 
provided  we  do  not  exceed  the  proper  limits  of  imaginative 
reason. 

This  variety  in  the  grouping  of  the  persons,  whether  so 
intended  or  not,  very  well  accords  with  the  spirit  in  which, 
or  the  occasion  for  which,  the  title  indicates  the  play  to  have 
been  written.  Twelfth  Day,  anciently  so  called  as  being  the 
twelfth  after  Christmas,  is  the  day  whereon  the  Church  has 
always  kept  the  feast  of- The  Epiphany,  or  the  Manifesta- 
tion of  Christ  to  the  Gentiles.”  So  that,  in  preparing  a 
Twelfth-Night  entertainment,  the  idea  of  fitness  might  aptly 
suggest,  that  national  lines  and  distinctions  should  be  lost  in 
the  paramount  ties  of  a common  Religion;  and  that  people 
the  most  diverse  in  kindred  and  tongue  should  draw  to- 
gether in  the  sentiment  of  one  Lord,  one  Faith,  one  Bap- 
tism ” ; their  social  mirth  thus  relishing  of  universal  Brother- 
hood. 

The  general  scope  and  plan  of  Twelfth  Nighty  as  a work 
of  art^  is  hinted  in  its  second  title ; all  the  comic  elements 
being,  as  it  were,  thrown  out  simultaneously,  and  held  in  a 
sort  of  equipoise ; so  that  the  readers  are  left  to  fix  the  pre- 
ponderance where  it  best  suits  their  several  bent  or  state  of 
mind,  and  each,  within  certain  limits  and  conditions,  may 
take  the  work  in  what  sense  he  wilL  For,  where  no  special 
prominence  is  given  to  any  one  thing,  there  is  the  wider 
scope  for  individual  aptitude  or  preference,  and  the  greater 
freedom  for  each  to  select  for  virtual  prominence  such  parts 
as  will  best  knit  in  with  what  is  uppermost  in  his  thoughts. 

The  significance  of  the  title  is  further  traceable  in  a pecu- 
liar spontaneousness  running  through  the  play.  Replete  as 
it  is  with  humours  and  oddities,  they  all  seem  to  spring  up 
of  their  own  accord ; the  comic  characters  being  free  alike 


INTRODUCTION. 


27 


from  disguises  and  pretensions,  and  seeking  merely  to  let 
off  their  inward  redundancy ; caring  nothing  at  all  whether 
everybody  or  nobody  sees  them,  so  they  may  have  their 
whim, out,  and  giving  utterance  to  folly  and  nonsense  simply 
because  they  cannot  help  it.  Thus  their  very  deformities 
have  a certain  grace,  since  they  are  genuine  and  of  Nature’s 
planting : absurdity  and  whimsicality  are  indigenous  to  the 
soil,  and  shoot  up  in  free,  happy  luxuriance,  from  the  life 
that  is  in  them.  And  by  thus  setting  the  characters  out  in 
their  happiest  aspects,  the  Poet  contrives  to  make  them  sim- 
ply ludicrous  and  diverting,  instead  of  putting  upon  them  the 
constructions  of  wit  or  spleen,  and  thereby  making  them 
ridiculous  or  contemptible.  Hence  it  is  that  we  so  readily 
enter  into  a sort  of  fellowship  with  them ; their  foibles  and 
follies  being  shown  up  in  such  a spirit  of  good-humour,  that 
the  subjects  themselves  would  rather  join  with  us  in  laugh-  ^ 
ing  than  be  angered  or  hurt  at  the  exhibition.  Moreover  \ 
the  high  and  the  low  are  here  seen  moving  in  free  and  ■ 
familiar  intercourse,  without  any  apparent  consciousness  of 
their  respective  ranks  : the  humours  and  comicalities  of  the 
play  keep  running  and  frisking  in  among  the  serious  parts,  to 
their  mutual  advantage  ; the  connection  between  them  being 
of  a kind  to  be  felt,  not  described. 


Thus  the  piece  overflows  with  the  genial,  free-and-easy 
spirit  of  a m^rry  Twelfth  Night.  Chance,  caprice,  and  in-  j 
trigue,  it  is  true,  are  brought  together  in  about  equal  por- 
I tions ; and  their  meeting  and  crossing  and  mutual  tripping 
cause  a deal  of  perplexity  and  confusion,  defeating  the  hopes 
of  some,  suspending  those  of  others  : yet  here,  as  is  often  the 
case  in  actual  life,  from  this  conflict  of  opposites  order  and 
happiness  spring  up  as  the  final  result : if  what  we  call  acci- 
dent thwart  one  cherished  purpose,  it  draws  on  something 


28 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


better,  blighting  a full-blown  expectation  now,  to  help  the 
blossoming  of  a nobler  one  hereafter  : and  it  so  happens  in 
the  end  that  all  the  persons  but  two  either  have  what  they 
will,  or  else  grow  willing  to  have  what  comes  to  their  hands. 

Such,  I believe,  as  nearly  as  I know  how  to  deliver  it,  is 
the  impression  I hold  of  this  charming  play ; an  impression 
that  has  survived,  rather  say,  has  kept  growing  deeper  and 
deeper  through  many  years  of  study,  and  after  many,  many 
an  hour  spent  in  quiet  communion  with  its  scenes  and  char- 
acters. In  no  one  of  his  dramas,  to  my  sense,  does  the 
Poet  appear  to  have  been  in  a healthier  or  happier  frame  of 
mind,  more  free  from  the  fascination  of  the  darker  problems 
of  humanity,  more  at  peace  with  himself  and  all  the  world, 
or  with  Nature  playing  more  kindly  and  genially  at  his  heart, 
and  from  thence  diffusing  her  benedictions  through  his  whole 
establishment.  So  that,  judging  from  this  transpiration  of 
his  inner  poetic  life,  I should  conclude  him  to  have  had 
abundant  cause  for  saying. 


Eternal  blessings  on  the  Muse, 
And  her  divine  employment ; — 


The  blameless  Muse  who  trains  her  sons 
For  hope  and  calm  enjoyment. 


I 


' ' r.  \ 


^ OvJ2.  fnjJj^vA^ 


ACT  1. 

Scene  I.  — An  Apartment  in  the  Duke’s  Palace, 

Enter  the  Duke,  Lords,  and  Curio  ; Musicians 

Duke,  If  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on  ; 

Give  me  excess  of  it,  that,  surfeiting. 

The  appetite  may  sicken,  and  so  die. 

That  strain  again  ! it  had  a dying  fall : i 

1 The  sense  of  dying,  as  here  used,  is  technically  expressed  by  dimmu- 
endo. 


TWELFT 


HT; 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Orsino,  Duke  of  Illyria. 

Sebastian,  a young  Gentleman. 

'•^  Antonio,  a Sea  Captain,  Friend  tgu 
Sebastian. 

A Sea  Captain,  triend  to  Viola, 


Valentine, 

Curio, 


I Gentlemen  attend!] 
I on  the  Duke, 


n«  u: 


Sir  Toby  B^lch,  .Uncle  of  Olivia. 


Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek. 
Malvolio,  Steward  to  Olivia.  ‘ 
^Fabian, 


A Clown, 


• Servants  to  Olivia. 


Olivia,  a Countess. 
Viola,  Sister  to  Sebastian. 
Olivia’s  Woman. 


Lords,  a Priest,  Sailors,  Officers,  Musicians,  and  other 


Scene,  a City  in  Illyria  ; and  the  Sea-coast  near  it. 


29 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  I 


'I 


O,  it  came  o’er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south, 

That  breathes  upon  a bank  of  violets, 

Stealing  and  giving  odour  ! — Enough  ; no  more  : 

,Tis  not  so  sweet  now  as  it  was  before.  — * 

O spirit  of  love,  how  quick  and  fresh  art  thou  ! 

That,  notwithstanding  thy  capacity 
Receiveth  as  the  sea,  nought  enters  there, 

Of  what  validity  2 and  pitch  soe’er. 

But  falls  into  abatement  and  low  price. 

Even  in  a minute  ! so  full  of  shapes  is  fancy,^ 

That  it  alone  is  high- fantastical. 

Cur,  Will  you  go  hunt,  my  lord  ? 

Duke,  What,  Curio? 

Cur,  The  hart. 

Duke,  Why,  so  I do,  the  noblest  that  I have : 

O,  when  mine  eyes  did  see  Olivia  first, 

Methought  she  purged  the  air  of  pestilence  ! 

That  instant  was  I turn’d  into  a hart ; 

And  my  desires,  like  fell  and  cruel  hounds, 

E’er  since  pursue  me.^  — ^ 

Enter  Valentine. 

How  now  ! what  news  from  her? 


Val,  So  piease  my  lord,  I might  not  be  admitted  \ 

But  from  her  handmaid  do  return  this  answer : 
yX. 

2 Validity  is  worth,  value.  So  in  All's  Well,  v.  3 : “ Behold  this  ring, 
whose  high  respect  and  rich  validity  did  lack  a parallel.” 

3 Fancy  is  continually  used  by  old  writers  for  love.  There  is  a play  on 
the  word  here. 

4 Shakespeare  seems  to  think  men  cautioned  against  too  great  familiar- 
ity with  forbidden  beauty  by  the  fable  of  Actaeon,  who  saw  Diana  naked,  and 
was  torn  to  pieces  by  his  hounds ; as  a man  indulging  his  eyes  or  his  imagi- 

.T  nation  with  a view  of  a woman  he  cannot  gain,  has  his  heart  torn  with 
\ incessant  longing. 


WHAT  YOU  ^ILL. 


SCENE  II. 


The  element  ^ itself,  till  seven  years  hence, 

Shall  not  behold  her  face  at  ample  view ; 

But,  like  a cloistress,  she  wih  "Id  walk. 

And  water  once  a day  her  chamber  round 
With  eye-offending  brine  : all  this  to  season® 

A brother’s  dead  love,  which  she  would  keep  fresh 
And  lasting  in  her  sad  remembrance. 

Duke,  O,  she  that  hath  a heart  of  that  fine  frame 
To  pay  this  debt  of  love  but  to  a brother, 

How  will  she  love,  when  the  rich  golden  shaft 
Hath  kill’d  the  flock  of  all  affections  else 
That  live  in  her ; when  liver,  brain,  and  heart, 

These  sovereign  thrones,  her  sweet  perfections, 

Are  all  supplied  and  fill’d  with  one  self  king  ! ^ — 

Away  before  me  to  sweet  beds  of  flowers  : 

Love-thoughts  lie  rich  when  canopied  with  bowers.  \^Exeunt 


Scene  II.  — The  Sea-coast 


Enter  Viola,  Captain,  and  Sailors. 


Vio.  What  country,  friends,  is  this  ? 
Cap. 

Vio.  And  what  should  I do  in  Illyria  ? 


Illyria,  lady. 


\ 


5 Element  here  means  the  sky.  So  in  2 Henry  /F.,  iv.  3 : “ And  I,  in  the 


clear  sky  of  fame,  o’ershine  you  as  much  as  the  full  Moon  doth  the  cinders 
of  the  element,  which  show  like  pins’  heads  to  her  ” ; cmders  meaning,  of 
course,  the  stars. 

6 To  season  is  to  preserve.  In  All's  Well,  i.  i,  tears  are  said  to  be  “ the 
H:;ost  brine  a maiden  can  season  her  praise  in.” 

The  liver,  brain,  and  heart  were  regarded  as  the  special  seats  of  passion, 
judgment,  and  affection,  and  so  were  put  respectively  for  their  supposed 
occupants.  — One  self  king  is  equivalent  to  one  and  the  same  king.  The 
Poet  often  uses  self^K'Ca.  the  force  of  salfsamc. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR 


ACT  t 


i, Perchance  he  is  not  drown’d  : what  think  you,  sailors? 

Cap,  It  is  perchance  ^ that  you  yourself  were  saved. 

Vio,  O my  poor  brother  ! and  so  perchance  may  he  be. 

Cap,  True,  madam  : and,  to  comfort  you  with  chance. 
Assure  yourself,  after  our  ship  did  split. 

When  you,  and  this  poor  number  saved  with  you. 

Hung  on  our  driving  boat,^  I saw  your  brother, 

I Most  provident  in  peril,  bind  himself — 

\ Courage  and  hope  both  teaching  him  the  pi  actice  — 
i To  a strong  mast  that  lived  upon  the  sea ; 
i Where,  like  Arion  on  the  dolphin’s  back,^ 

I saw  him  hold  acquaintance  with  the  waves 
So  long  as  I could  see. 

S?  Vio,  For  saying  so,  there’s  gold : 

Mine  own  escape  unfoldeth  to  my  hope, 

AVhereto  thy  speech  serves  for  authority. 

The  like  of  him.  Know’st  thou  this  country? 

U Cap,  Ay,  madam,  well ; for  I was  bred  and  born 


1 Viola  first  uses  perchance  in  the  sense  of  perhaps  ; the  Captain  in  that 


■of  by  chance,  accident,  ox  good  luck. 


2 “ Driving  boat  ” means,  I suppose,  boat  driven  before  the  storm, 

3 Arion’s  feat  is  worthily  described  in  Wordsworth’s  poem  On  the  Power 


of  sound: 


Thy  skill,  Arion, 

Could  humanize  the  creaures  of  the  sea, 

Where  men  were  monsters.  A last  grace  he  craves, 
Leave  for  one  chant ; — the  dulcet  sound 
Steals  from  the  deck  o’er  willing  waves. 

And  listening  dolphins  gather  round. 

Self-cast,  as  with  a desperate  course. 

Mid  that  strange  audience,  he  bestrides 
A proud  one  docile  as  a managed  horse; 

And  singing,  while  the  accordant  hand 
Sweeps  his  harp,  the  master  rides. 


SCENE  II. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


Not  three  hours*  tmvel  from  this  very  place. 

Vio.  Who  goveras  here? 

Cap,  A noblL  duke,  in  nature  as  in  name."* 

Vio,  Whclt  is  his  name  ? 

Cap,  Orsino. 

Vio Drsino  ! I have  heard  my  father  name  him  : 

He  was  a baichelor  then.  ^ 

Cap,  And  so  is  now,  or  was  so  vi^^^iate^ 

For  but  a month  ago  I went  from  hence,  * 

And  then  ’twp,s  fresh  in  murmur,  — as,  you  know, 

What  great  ones  do,  the  less  will  prattle  of,  — 

That  he  did  seek  the  love  of  fair  Olivia. 

Vio,  WHat’s  she  ? 

^ Cap,  A^  virtuous  maid,  the  daughter  of  a count 
That  died  some  twelvemonth  since ; then  leaving  her 
In  the  protection  of  his  son,,  her  brother. 

Who  shortly  also  died  :*  for  whose  dear  loss, 

They  say,  she  hath  abjured  the  con^any 
And  sight  of  men. 

Vio,  O,  that  I served  that  lady, 

And  might  not  be  deliver’d  to  the  world. 

Till  I had  made  mine  own  occasion  mellow, 

Wnat  my  estate  is  ! ^ 

Cap.  That  were  hard  to  compass  ; 

Because  she  will  admit  no  kind  of  suit. 

No,  not  the  Duke’s. 

4 An  allusion,  no  doubt,  to  the  great  and  well-known  Italian  family  of 
Orsini,  from  whom  the  name  Orsino  is  borrowed. 

5 Viola  is  herself  a nobleman’s  daughter;  and  she  here  wishes  that  her 
birth  and  quality  — her  estate  — may  be  kept  secret  from  the  world,  till  she 
has  a ripe  occasion  for  making  known  who  she  is.  Certain  later  passages 
in  the  play  seem  to  infer  that  she  has  already  fallen  in  love  with  Diike'tfrsino 
from  the  descriptions  she  has  had  of  him. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR,  i 


ACT  I. 


[ an : 


Vw.  There  is  a fair  behaviour  in  thee,  clpt 
And  though  that  nature  with  a beauteous  v/all 
Doth  oft  close-in  pollution,  yet  of  thee 
I well  believe  thou  hast  a mind  that  suits 
With  this  thy  fair  and  outward  character. 

I pr’ythee,  — and  I’ll  pay  thee  bounteously,  — 

Conceal  me  what  I am ; and  be  my  aid 
For  such  disguise  as  haply  shall  become  , 

The  form  of  my  intent.  I’ll  serve  this  Duke  : ^ 

Thou  shalt  present  me  as  an  eunuch  to  him  : ® / 

It  may  be  worth  thy  pains  ; for  I can  sing, 

And  speak  to  him  in  many  sorts  of  music. 

That  will  allow  me  very  worth  his  service.'^' 

What  else  may  hap,  to  time  I will  commit ; ^ 

Only  shape  thou  thy  silence  to  my  wit. 

Cap.  Be  you  his  eunuch,  and  your  mute  I’ll  be  PO 
When  my  tongue  blabs,  then  let  mine  eyes'  not  see. 

Via.  I thank  thee  : lead  me  on. 


Scene  III.  — ^ Room  in  Olivia’s  House. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Maria. 

Sir  To.  What  a plague  means  my  niece,  tp  take  the  death 
of  her  brother  thus?  I am  sure  care’s  an  enemy_to_lifg. 

Mar.  By  my  troth,  Sir  T^y,you  must  come  in  earlier  o’ 

6 This  plan  of 'Viola’s  was  not  pursued,  as  it  would  have  been  intonsist- 

ent  with  the  plot  of  the  play.  She  was  presented  as  a not  as  an 

eunuch. 

7 “ Will  approve  me  worth  his  service”;  that  is,  ” will that  / izw 

worth,”  &c.  I'his  use  of  to  allow  for  to  approve  is  very  common  in  old 
English;  and  Shakespeare  has  it  repeatedly.  So  in  Kifzg  Lear,  ii.  4:  “O 
Heavens,  if  your  sweet  sway  allow  obedience.”  i 


.SCENE  III, 


WHAT  YOU  WILL, 


nights : your  cousin/  my  lady,  takes  great  exceptions  to 
your  ill  hours. 

Str  To.  Why,  let  her  except  before  excepted.® 

Mar.  Ay,  but  you  must  confine  yourself  within  the  mod-  „ 


est  limits  of  order. 

Sir  To.  Confine  ! I’ll  confine  myself  no  finer  than  I 


am  : ^ these  clothes  are  good  enough  to  drink  in ; and  so  be 
these  boots  too  : an  they  be  not,  let  them  hang  themselves 


in  their  own  straps.  ^ 

Mar,  That  quaffing  and  drinking  will  undo  you  : I heard  / 
my  lady  talk  of  it  yesterday ; and  of  a foolish  knight  thay 
you  brought  in  one  night  here  to  be  her  wooer. 

Sir  To.  Who,  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek  ? , 

Mar.  Ay,  he. 

Sir  To.  He’s  as  tall  a man  ^ as  any’s  in  Illyria. 

Mar.  What’s  that  to  the  purpose  ? 

Sir  To.  Why,  he  has  three  thousand  ducats  a year. 

Mar.  Av.  but  he’ll  have  but  a year  in  all  these  ducats : 


Sir  To.  Fie,  that  you’ll  say  sb  ! he  plays  o’  the  viol-dey  . 
gamboys,^  and  speaks  three  or  four  languages  word  for  word  \ 


without  book,  and  hath  all  the  good  gifts  of  nature. 


1  Cousin  used,  not  only  for  what  we  so  designate,  but  also  fox  nephew. 


niece ^ grandchild^  and,  indeed,  kindred  in  general. 


2 The  Poet  here  shows  his  familiarity  with  the  technical  language  of  the 
Law ; Sir  Toby  being" made  to  run  a whimsical  play  upon  the  old  legal  ^ 
phrase,  “ those  things  being  excepted  which  were  before  excepted.” 

3 Sir  Toby  purposely  misunderstands  confine,  taking  it  for  refine. 

4 The  use  of  tall  for  bold,  valiant,  stout,  was  common  in  Shakespeare’s 
time,  and  occurs  several  times  in  his  works.  Sir  Toby  is  evidently  ban- 
tering with  the  word,  Sir  Andrew  being  equally  deficient  in  spirit  and  in 
stature. 

5 Viol-de-gamloys  appears  to  be  a Tobyism  for  viol  da  gamba,  an  instru- 
ment much  like  the  violoncello : so  called  because  it  was  held  between  the 


36 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  L 


Mar,  He  hatli,  indeed,  all  most  natural  ^ for,  besides 
that  he’s  a fool,  he’s  a great  quarreller ; and,  but  that  he 
hath  the  gift  of  a coward  to  allay  the  gust"^  he  hath  in  quar- 
relling, ’tis  thought  among  the  prudent  he  would  quickly 
have  the  gift  of  a grave. 

Sir  To,  By  this  hand,  they  are  scoundrels  and  substrac- 
tors®  that  say  so  of  him.  Who  are  they  ?^ 

Mar,  They  that  add,  moreover,  he’s  drunk  nightly  in  your 
company. 

Sir  To,  With  drinking  healths  to  my  niece  : I’ll  drink  to 
her  as  long  as  there  is  a passage  in  my  throat  and  drink  in 
Illyria  : he’s  a coward  and  a coistreP  that  will  not  drink  to 
my  niece  till  his  brains  turn  o’  the  toe  like  a parish-top.^^ 
What,  wench  ! Castiliano  volto for  here  comes  Sir  An- 
drew Agueface. 

Enter  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek.  d 

S' 

Sir  And,  Sir  Toby  Belch ; how  now,  Sir  Toby  Belch  ! 

legs ; gamba  being  Italian  for  leg.  According  to  Gifford,  the  instrument 
“ was  an  indispensable  piece  of  furniture  in  every  fashionable  house,  where 
it  hung  up  in  the  best  chamber,  much  as  the  guitar  does  in  Spain,  and  the 
violin  in  Italy,  to  be  played  on  at  will,  and  to  fill  up  the  void  of  conversa- 
tion. Whoever  pretended  to  fashion  affected  an  acquaintance  with  this 
instrument.” 

6 Maria  plays  upon  natural,  which,  in  one  of  its  senses,  meant  a fool.  See 
As  You  Like  It,  page  15,  note  3.  — There  is  also  an  equivoque  in  all  most^ 
one  of  the  senses  being  almost. 

7 Gust  is  taste,  from  the  Italian  gusto  ; not  much  used  now,  though  its 
sense  lives  in  disgust. 

8 Sub  str  actors  is  another  Toby  ism  for  detractors. 

0 Holinshed  classes  coistrels  among  the  unwarlike  followers  of  an  army. 
It  was  thus  used  as  a term  of  contempt. 

A large  top  was  formerly  kept  in  each  village  for  the  peasantry  to 
amuse  themselves  with  in  frosty  weather.  ” He  sleeps  like  a town-top,”  is  an 
old  proverb. 

Meaning,  ” Put  on  a Castilian  face  ” ; that  is,  grave,  solemn  looks. 


tiCENE  III. 


Sir  To.  Sweet  Sir  Andrew  ! 

— Sir  And.  Bks$.  y.QU,  fair  shrew. 

Mar.  And  you  too,  sir. 

Sir  To.  Accost,  Sir  Andrew,  accost.i^ 

^ Sir  And.  Wbat’s^at  ? 

Sir  To.  My  niece’s  chambermaid. 

^Sir  And.  Good  Mistress  Accost,  I desire  better  acquaint- 
ance. 

Mar.  My  name  is  Mary,  sir. 

»>  Sir  And.  Good  Mistress  Mary  Accost,  — 

■ \ Sir  To.  You  mistake,  knight : accost  is  front  her,  board 
her,  woo  her,  assail  her. 

Sir  And.  By  my  troth,  I would  not  undertake  her  in  this 
company.  Is  that  the  meaning ^of^a^st t 

Mar.  Fare  you  well,  gentlemen.  « 

Sir  To.  An  thou  let  her  part  so,!^  Sir  Andrew,  would 
thou  mightst  never  draw  sword  again. 

Sir  And.  An  you  part  so,  mistress,  I would  I might  never 
draw  sword  again.  Fair  lady,  do  you  think  you  have  fools 
in  hand? 

Mar.  Sir,  I have  not  you  by  the  hand. 

Sir  And.  Marry,  but  you  shall  have  ; and  here’s  my  hand. 

Mar.  Now,  sir,  thought  is  free  : I pray  you,  bring  your 
hand  to  the  buttery-bar,  and  let  it  drink. 


H’-' 


I'.l’ 


12  Sir  Toby  speaks  more  learnedly  than  intelligibly  here,  using  accost  in 
its  original  sense.  The  word  is  from  the  French  accoster,  to  come  side  by 
side,  or  to  approach.  Accost  is  seldom  used  thus,  which  accounts  for  Sir 
Andrew’s  'mistake. 

13  Part  for  depart.  A frequent  usage. 

14  The  buttery  was  formerly  a place  for  all  sorts  of  gastric  refreshments, 
and  a dry  hand  was  considered  a symptom  of  debility.  — The  relevancy  of 
“ thought  is  free  ” may  be  not  very  apparent.  Perhaps  the  following  from 
Lyly’s  Euphues,  1581,  will  illustrate  it:  “ None,  quoth  she,  can  judge  of  wit 


38 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  /. 


Sir  And,  Wherefore,  sweet-heart?  what’s  your  meta- 
phor?   ^ 

Mar.  It’s  dry,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Why,  I think  so  : I am  not  such  an  ass  but  I 
can  keep  my  hand  dry.  But  what’s  your  jest? 

Mar.  A dry  jest,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Are  you  full  of  them  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  sir,  I have  them  at  my  fingers’  ends  : marry, 
now  I let  go  your  hand,  I am  barren.  [_Exit 

Sir  To,  O knight,  thou  lack’st  a cup  of  canary  : when  did 
I see  thee  so  put  down  ? 

Sir  And.  Never  in  your  life,  I think ; unless  you  saw 
canary  put  me  down.  Methinks  sometimes  I have  no  more 
wit  than  a Christian  or  an  ordinary  man  has  : but  I am  a great 
eater  of  beef,  and  I believe  that  does  harm  to  my  wit.^^ 

Sir  To.  No  question.  . 

Sir  And.  An  I thought  that,  I’d  forswear  it.  Ul’ll  ride 
home  to-morrow.  Sir  Toby.  \\ 

Sir  To.  Fourquoi,  my  dear  knight  ? 

Sir  And.  What  is  pourqiioi  ? do  or  not  do  ? I would  I 
had  bestowed  that  time  in  the  tonguesJ:hat  I have  in  fencing, 
dancing,  and  bear-baiting  : O,  ImdTTut  followed  the  Arts  ! 

Sir  To.  Then  hadst  thou  had  an  excellent  head  of 
hair.i® 


but  they  that  have  it.  Why,  then,  quoth  he,  dost  thou  think  me  a fool  ? 

Thought  is  free,  my  lord,  quoth  she.” 

So  in  The  Haven  of  Health,  1584:  “ Galen  affirmeth  that  biefe  maketh 
grosse  bloude  and  engendreth  melancholie,  especially  if  it  is  much  eaten, 
and  if  such  as  doe  eat  it  be  of  a melancholy  complexion." 

Sir  Toby  is  quibbling  between  tongues  and  tongs,  the  latter  meaning, 
of  course,  the  well-known  instrument  for  curling  the  hair.  The  two  words 
were  often  written,  and  probably  sounded,  alike,  or  nearly  so.  So  in  the  in- 
troduction to  The  Faerie  Queene : " O,  helpe  thou  my  weake  wit,  and 


YoA: 


SCEm  III.  WHAT  YG®:  WILL.  39 

Sir  And,  Why,  would  that  hive  mended  rr}’ i lair. ^ 

^ir  To,  Past  question  ; lor  toou  '^see’st  it  will  not  curl  by 
nature.  , 

^ Sir  And,  But  it  becomes  me  /ei!  ^^ogh,  does’t  not?^^"^ 

Sir  To,  Excellent;  it  hangL  like  ;liax^^a  distaff;  and  I 
hope  to  see  a housewife  take  thee^.  : oif 

^'^Sir  And,  Faith,  I’ll  home  to-mai'ow,  fir  Toby:  your 
niece  will  not  be  seen  ;*or,  if  she  be,  it’s  four  to  one  she’ll 
none  of  me : the  Count  himself  here  hard  by  wooes 
her. 

Sir  To,  She’ll  none  o’  the  Count : she’ll  not  match  above 
her  degree,  neither  in  estate,  years,  nor  wit ; I have  he'ird 
her  swear’t.  Tut,  there’s  life  in’t,i®  man. 

Sir  And,  I’ll  stay  a month  longer.  I am  a fellow  o’  the 
strangest  mind  i’  the  world ; I delight  in  masques  and  revels 
sometimes  altogether. 

Sir  To,  Art  thou  good  at  these  kickshawses,^^  knight? 

Sir  And,  As  any  man  in  Illyria,  whatsoever  he  be,  under 
the  degree  of  my  betters ; and  yet  I will  not  compare  with 
a nobleman. 

Sir  To,  What  is  thy  excellence  in  a galliard,  knight  ? 

' Sir  And,  Faith,  I can  cut  a caper. 


I sharpen  my  dull  tongy  Here  the  word  rhymes  with  long  and  wrong.  For 
I this  explanation,  which  is  not  more  ingenious  than  apt  and  just,  I am  in- 
debted to  a private  letter  from  Mr.  Joseph  Crosby. 

1"^  The  titles  Duke  and  Count  are  used  indifferently  of  Orsino.  The  rea- 
son of  this,  if  there  be  any,  is  not  apparent.  The  Poet  of  course  understood 
he  difference  between  a duke  and  a count,  well  enough.  White  suggests 
‘t  in  a revisal  of  the  play  he  may  have  concluded  to  change  the  title,  and 
■en,  for  some  cause,  left  the  change  incomplete. 

18  Equivalent  to  “ there  is  hope  in  it.”  It  was  a phrase  of  the  time. 

A Tobyism,  probably,  for  kickshaws^  an  old  word  for  trifles  or  knlck 
^acks;  said  to  be  a corruption  of  the  French  quelq-ue  chose. 


40 


TWELFTH  ^IGHT  ; OR, 


TWELFTH  ^IGHT  ; OR,  AC'T  I. 

Sir  To.  *nd  I can  cut  the  mutton  to’t.®*  f 

Sir  And.  Ana  I think  1 have  the  back-trick  simjjly  as 
l^strong  as  any  man  in  y'yrift. 

To,  Wherefo^^  t^y^se  things  hid?  wherefore  have 
these  gifts  a curjp=i^  before  '-m  ? are  they  like  to  take  dust, 
like  Mistress  Mall’s  picture.*^^!  church 

in  a galliard,  and  come  home  in  a coranto?^^  My  very  walk 
should  be  a jig..  Vhat  dost  thou  mean?  is  it  a world  to 
hide  virtues  m ? I did  think,  by  the  excellent  constitution 
of  thy  leg,  it  was  form’d  under  the  star  of  a galliard. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  ’tis  strong,  and  it  does  indifferent  well  in  a 
flame-colour’d  stock.^^  Shall  we  set  about  some  revels  ? 

Sir  To.  What  shall  we  do  else  ? were  we  not  born  under 
Taurus  ? 

^ Sir  And.  Taurus  ! that’s  sides  and  heart. 

Sir  To.  No,  sir;  it  is  legs  and  thighs.^^  Let  me  see  thee 


20  A double  pun  is  probably  intended  here ; the  meaning  being,  “ If  you 
can  do  the  man’s  part  in  a galliard,  I can  do  the  woman's.”  Mutton  was 
sometimes  used  as  a slang  term  for  a woman. 

21  Mistress  Mall  was  a very  celebrated  character  of  the  Poet’s  time,  who 
played  many  parts  (not  on  the  stage)  in  male  attire.  Her  real  name  was 
Mary  Frith,  though  commonly  known  as  Moll  Cutpurse.  In  i6io  a book 
was  entered  at  the  Stationers,  called  The  Madde  Prankes  of  Merry  Moll  of 
the  Bankside,  with  her  Walks  in  Man's  Apparel,  and  to  what  purpose  ]oh\i 
Day.  Middleton  and  Dekker  wrote  a comedy  entitled  The  Roaring  Girl, 
of  which  she  was  the  heroine.  Portraits  were  commonly  curtained  to  keep 
off  the  dust. 

22  Galliard  and  coranto  are  names  of  dances  : the  galliard,  a lively,  stir- 
ring dance,  from  a Spanish  word  signifying  cheerful,  gay ; the  coranto,  a 
quick  dance  for  two  persbns,  described  as  “ traversing  and  running,!  as  our 
country  dance,  but  having  twice  as  much  in  a strain.” 

28  “A  flamc-colour’d  stock"  is  a pretty  emphatic  sort  of  stocking.  — ‘‘ 
different  well  ” is  tolerably  A frequent  usage. 

24  Alluding  to  the  medical  astrology  of  the  almanacs.  Both  the  knig^ 
are  wrong;  the  zodiacal  sign  Taurus  having  reference  to  the  neck 
throat.  The  point  soems  to  be  that  Sir  Poby  is  poking  fun  at  Sir  Apdn  ^ 
conceit  of  agility : ” I can  cut  a caper,” 


Scene  V.  — A Room  in  Olivia’s  House, 
Enter  Maria  and  the  Clown. 


Nay,  either  tell  me  where  thou  hast  been,  or  I will 
not  b^n  my  lips  so  wide  as  a bristle  may  enter  in  way  of 
thy  se  : my  lady  will  hang  thee  for  thy  absence. 

Cto,  Let  her  hang  me  : he  that  is  well  hang’d  in  this 
world  needs  to  fear  no  colours. ^ 

Mar,  Make  that  good. 


Ctp,  He  shall  see  none  to  fear. 

Afar,  A good  lenten  answer.^  I can  tell  thee  where  that 
sayirig  was  born,  of,  I fear  no  colours, 

Clo,  Where,  good  Mistress  Mary  ? 

Afar,  In  the  wars ; and  that  may  you  be  bold  to  say  in 


your  foolery. 

(flo.  Well,  God  give  them  wisdom  that  have  it ; and  those 
are  fools,  let  them  use  their  talents. 

Yet  you  wlH^hang’d  for  being  so  long  absent ; 
or,  > to  be  turn’d  away,  — is  not  that  as  good  as  a hanging  to 
yovi? 

jClo,  Many  a good  hanging  prevents  a bad  marriage  ; and, 
fojv  turning  away,  let  Summer  bear  it  out. 


Mar,  You  are  resolute,  then? 
fClo,  Not  so,  neither ; but  I am  resolved  on  two  points. 


oth  the  origin  of  this  phrase  and  the  meaning  attached  to  it,  notwith- 
ng  Maria’s  explanation,  are  still  obscure.  Colours  is  still  used  ioxjlag ; 
>robably  it  is  here  to  be  taken  in  a figurative  sense  for  enemy. 

Probably  a short  or  spare  answer ; like  the  diet  used  in  Lent.  Lenten 
,ght  be  applied  to  any  thing  that  marked  the  season  of  Lent.  Thus  Tay- 
r the  water-poet  speaks  of  “ a lenten  top,”  which  people  amused  them- 


r 


Fact  i. 


Mar.  That,  ii'  one  break,  the  other  will  hold ; or,  if  both 

' I 

break,  your  gaskins  fall.^  i 

C/a.  Apt,  in  good  faith ; very  apt.  Well,  go  thy  way ; 
if  Sir  Toby  would  leave  drinking,  thou  wert  as  witty  a piece 
of  Eve’s  flesh  as  any  in  Illyria.  ;• 

Mar.  Peace,  you  rogue,  no  more  o’  that.  Here  comes  my 
lady  ; make  your  excuse  wisely,  you  were  best. 

Clo.  Wit,  an’t  be  thy  will,  put  me  into  good  foo.mg  ! 
Those  wits  that  think  they  have  thee  do  very  oft  prove  fools ; 
and  I,  that  am  sure  I lack  thee,  may  pass  for  a wise  man  : 
for  what  says  Quinapalus?^  Better  a witty  fool  than  a foolish 


wit  - 


Enter  Olivia  and  Malvolio. 


\ 


God  bless  thee,  lady  ! 

OH.  Take  the  Fool  away. 

Clo.  Do  you  not  hear,  fellows?  Take  away  the  lady. 

OH.  Go  to,  you’re  a dry  Fool;  I’ll  no  more  of  you : 
sides,  you  grow  dishonest. 

Clo.  Two  faults,  madonna,  that  drink  and  good  counsel 
will  amend  : for,  give  the  dry  Fool  drink,  then  is  the  Fool  ijiot 
dry  ; bid  the  dishonest  man  mend  himself ; if  he  mend,  h|  is 
no  longer  dishonest ; if  he  cannot,  let  the  botcher  mend  h’lpi. 
Any  thing  that’s  mended  is  but  patch’d : virtue  that  trad'-s- 
gresses  is  but  patch’d  with  sin ; and  sin  that  amends  is  lf|ut 
jiatch’d  with  virtue  : if  that  this  simple  syllogism  will 
so ; if  it  will  not,  what  remedy  ? As  there  is  no  true  *^*^^^*^ 

8 Maria  quibbles  upon  points.  Gaskins  was  the  name  of  a man  s n^  J 
garment,  large  hose,  or  trousers ; and  the  points  were  the  tags  or  r 
i.vhich,  being  tied,  held  them  up. 

4 Quinapalus  is  an  Imaginary  author.  To  invent  or  to  com  names 
j^iorities  for  the  nonje,  seems  to  be  a part  of  tKis  Clown’s  In 


ENE  V. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


45 


but  calamity,  so  beauty’s  a flower.  — The  lady  bade  take  away 
the  Fool ; therefore,  I say  again,  take  her  away. 

OH,  Sir,  I bade  them  take  away  you. 

Clo,  Misprision  in  the  highest  degree  ! Lady,  cucullus  non 
facit  inonachuni  that’s  as  much  as  to  say,  I wear  not  mot- 
ley in  my  brain.  Good  madonna,  give  me  leave  to  prove  you 
a fool. 

Oli,  Can  you  do  it? 

Clo,  Dexteriously,  good  madonna. 

OH.  Make  your  proof. 

C/o.  I must  catechize  you  for  it,  madonna : good  my 
mouse  of  virtue,  answer  me. 

OH.  Well,  sir,  for  want  of  other  idleness,  I’ll  bide  your 
proof. 

C/o.  Good  madonna,  why  mourn’st  thou  ? 

OH.  Good  Fool,  for  my  brother’s  death. 

C/o.  I think  his  soul  is  in  Hell,  madonna. 

OH.  I know  his  soul  is  in  Heaven,  Fool. 

Clo.  The  more  fool,  madonna,  to  mourn  for  your  brother’s 
soul  being  in  Heaven.  — Take  away  the  fool,  gentlemen. 

OH.  What  think  you  of  this  Fool,  Malvolio?  doth  he  not 
mend  ? 

Mai.  Yes,  and  shall  do  till  the  pangs  of  death  shake  him  : 
infirmity,  that  decays  the  wise,  doth  ever  make  the  better 
fool. 

Clo.  God  send  you,  sir,  a speedy  infirmity,  for  the  better 
increasing  your  folly  ! Sir  Toby  will  be  sworn  that  I am  no 
fox ; but  he  will  not  pass  his  word  for  twopence  that  you  are 
^o  fool. 


5 A common  proverb ; literally,  “ a hood  does  not  make  a monk. 
\hakespeare  hai.  it  elsewhere. 


46 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR^ 


ACT  I. 


on.  How  say  you  to  that,  Malvolio  ? 

MaL  I marvel  your  ladyship  takes  delight  in  such  a bar- 
ren rascal : I saw  him  put  down  the  other  day  with  an  ordi- 
nary fool,  that  has  no  more  brain  than  a stone.  Look  you 
now,  he’s  out  of  his  guard  already ; unless  you  laugh  and 
minister  occasion  to  him,  he  is  gagg’d.  I protest,  I take 
those  wise  men,  that  crow  so  at  these  set  kind  of  Fools,  to 
be  no  better  than  the  Fools’  zanies.® 

on,  O,  you  are  sick  of  self-love,  Malvolio,  and  taste  with 
a distemper’d  appetite.  To  be  generous,  guiltless,  and  of 
free  disposition,  is  to  take  those  things  for  bird-bolts  that 
you  deem  cannon-bullets  : there  is  no  slander  in  an  allow’d 
Fool,®  though  he  do  nothing  but  rail ; nor  no  railing  in  a 
known  discreet  man,  though  he  do  nothing  but  reprove. 

Clo,  Now  Mercury  endue  thee  with  leasing,^  for  thou 
speak’st  well  of  Fools  ! 


6 The  zany  in  Shakespeare’s  day  was  the  attenuated  mime  of  the  mimic. 
He  was  the  servant  or  attendant  of  the  professional  clown,  who  accompanied 
him  on  the  stage  or  in  the  ring,  attempting  to  imitate  his  tricks,  and  adding 
to  the  general  merriment  by  his  ludicrous  failures  and  comic  imbecility.  It 
is  this  characteristic,  not  merely  of  mimicry,  but  of  weak  and  abortive  mim- 
icry, that  gives  its  distinctive  meaning  to  the  word,  and  colours  it  with  a 
special  tinge  of  contempt.  This  feature  of  the  early  stage  has  descended  to 
our  own  times,  and  may  still  be  found  in  the  performances  of  the  circus. 
We  have  ourselves  seen  the  clown  and  the  zany  in  the  ring  together;  the 
clown  doing  clever  tricks,  the  zany  provoking  immense  laughter  by  his  ludi- 
crous failures  in  attempting  to  imitate  them.  — Edinburgh  Review,  July, 
1869. 

7 Bird-bolts  were  short  thick  arrows  with  obtuse  ends,  used  for  shooting 
young  rooks  and  other  birds. 

8 An  allow'd  Fool  was  the  domestic  or  court  Fool,  like  Touchstone  in 
As  You  Like  It ; that  is,  the  jester  by  profession,  who  dressed  in  motley 
with  whom  folly  was  an  art ; and  whose  functions  are  so  admirably  set  forth 
by  Jaques  in  the  play  just  mentioned,  ii.  7. 

y The  Clown  means,  that  unless  Olivia  lied  she  could  not  “ speak  well  of 
Fools”;  therefore  he  prays  Mercury  to  endue  her  with  Lasing.  Least 


SCENE  V. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL, 


47 


Re-enter  Maria. 

Mar,  Madam,  there  is  at  the  gate  a young  gentleman 
much  desires  to  speak  with  you. 

Oli,  From  the  Count  Orsino,  is  it? 

Mar.  I know  not,  madam  : ’tis  a fair  young  man,  and 
well  attended. 

on.  Who  of  my  people  hold  him  in  delay  ? 

Mar.  Sir  Toby,  madam,  your  kinsman. 

OH.  Fetch  him  off,  I pray  you ; he  speaks  nothing  but 
madman  : fie  on  him  ! [ Exit  Maria.]  — Go  you,  Mal- 

volio  : if  it  be  a suit  from  the  Count,  I am  sick,  or  not  at 
home ; what  you  will,  to  dismiss  it.  \^Exit  Malvolio.]  — 
Now  you  see,  sir,  how  your  fooling  grows  old,  and  people 
dislike  it. 

Clo.  Thou  hast  spoke  for  us,  madonna,  as  if  thy  eldest 
son  should  be  a Fool,  — whose  skull  Jove  cram  with  brains  ! 
for  here  comes  one  of  thy  kin  has  a most  weak  pia 
materP 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch. 

OH.  By  mine  honour,  half  drunk.  — What  is  he  at  the 
gate,  cousin? 

Sir  To.  A gentleman. 

OH.  A gentleman  ! what  gentleman  ? 

Sir  To.  ’Tis  a gentleman  here  — a plague  o’  these  pickle- 
herring ! — How  now,  sot ! 

was  about  the  same  as  our  fibbing.  As  Mercury  was  the  God  of  cheats  and 
liars,  the  Clown  aptly  invokes  his  aid. 

1*^  The  membrane  that  covers  the  brain ; put  for  the  brain  itself. 

H Pickled  herrings  seem  to  have  been  a common  relish  in  drunken 
sprees.  Gabriel  Harvey  says  of  Robert  Greene,  the  profligate  dramatist, 
that  he  died  “ of  a surfett  of  pickle  herringe  and  Rennishe  wine.” 

12  Sot  is  used  by  the  Poet  for  fool;  as  in  The  Merry  Wives  Dr.  Caius 
says,  “ Have  you  make-a  de  sot  of  us?  ” 


48 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OK, 


ACT  1. 


C/c?,  Good  Sir  Toby  ! — 

on.  Cousin^oi^n,  how  liave  you  come  so  early  by  this 

Sir  To.  Leeiiery  ! I defy  lechery.  There’s  one  at  the 
gate. 

OH,  Ay,  marry,  what  is  he  ? 

Sir  To,  Let  him  be  the  Devil,  an  he  will,  I care  not : 
give  me  faith,  say  1.  Well,  it’s  all  one.  \_Exit, 

OH,  What’s  a drunken  man  like.  Fool? 

Clo,  Like  a drown’d  man,  a fool,  and  a madman  : one 
draught  above  heat  makes  him  a fool ; the  second  mads 
him ; and  a third  drowns  him. 

Oh,  Go  thou  and  seek  the  crowner,  and  let  him  sit  o’  my 
coz;  for  he’s  in  the  third  degree  of  drink,  — he’s  drown’d  : 
go,  look  after  him. 

Clo,  He  is  but  mad  yet,  madonna;  and  the  Fool  shall 
look  to  the  madman.  Exit 

^ Re-enter  Malvolio. 


Mai,  Madam,  yond  young  fellow  swears  he  will  speak 
with  you.  I told  him  you  were  sick ; he  takes  on  him  to 
understand  so  much,  and  therefore  comes  to  speak  with 
you  : I told  him  you  were  asleep  ; he  seems  to  have  a fore- 
knowledge of  that  too,  and  therefore  comes  to  speak  with 
you.  What  is  to  be  said  to  him,  lady  ? he’s  fortified  against 
any  denial. 

Oh,  Tell  him  he  shall  not  speak  with  me. 

Mai.  ’Has  been  told  so ; and  he  says,  he’ll  stand  at  your 
door  like  a sheriff’s  post,^^  and  be  the  supporter  to  a bench, 
but  he’ll  speak  with  you. 

18  To  dej^wa.s  often  used  for  to  renounce,  or  abjure. 

1^  I he  Sheriffs  formerly  had  painted  posts  set  up  at  their  doofT^  which 
proclamations  and  placards  were  affixed. 


SCENE  V. 


WHAT  \'OU  WILL. 


49 


OIL  What  kind  o’  man  is  he? 

Mai.  Why,  of  man  kind. 

OIL  What  manner  of  man  ? 

Mai.  Of  very  ill  manner ; he’ll  speak  with  you,  will  you 
or  no. 

OH.  Of  what  personage  and  years  is  he  ? 

Mai.  Not  yet  old  enough  for  a man,  nor  young  enough 
for  a boy  ; as  a squash  is  before  ’tis  a peascod,  or  a codling 
when  ’tis  almost  an  apple ; ’tis  with  him  e’en  standing 
water,  between  boy  and  man.  He  is  very  well-favour’d,  and 
he  speaks  very  shrewishly ; one  would  think  his  mother  s 

milk  were  scarce  out  of  him. 

Oli.  Let  him  appoach  : call  in  my  gentlewoman. 

Mai.  Gentlewoman,  my  lady  calls.  \_Exit. 

Re-ente7'  Maria. 

Oli,  Give  me  my  veil : come,  throw  it  o’er  my  face. 

We’ll  once  more  hear  Orsino’s  embassy. 

Enter  Viola. 

Vio.  The  honourable  lady  of  the  house,  which  is  she? 

Oli.  Speak  to  me  ; I shall  answer  for  her.  Your  will? 

• Vio.  Most  radiant,  exquisite,  and  unmatchable  beauty,— 
I pray  you,  tell  me  if  this  be  the  lady  of  the  house,  for  1 
never  saw  her ; I would  be  loth  to  cast  away  my  speech ; 
for,  besides  that  it  is  excellently  well  penn’d,  I have  taken 


16  A codling,  according  to  Gifford,  means  an  involucrum  or  kell,  and 
was  used  by  our  old  writers  for  that  early  stage  of  vegetation,  when  the  fruit, 
after  shaking  off  the  blossom,  begins  to  assume  a globular  and  determinate 
shape.  The  original  of  squash  was  used  of  such  young  vegetables  as  were 

eaten  in  the  state  of  immaturity. 

16  Shrewishly  is  sharply,  tartly:  like  a shrew.  So,  of  old.  shrewdannant 
keen  or  biting. 


ACT  I. 


5*^  twelfth  night  ; or, 

great  pains  to  con  it.  Good  beauties,  let  me  sustain  no 
scorn  : I am  very  comptible  i’  even  to  the  least  sinister  usage. 
Oh,  Whence  came  you,  sir? 

Vto.  I can  say  little  more  than  I have  studied,  and  that 
question’s  out  of  my  part.  Good  gentle  one,  give  me  mod- 
est assurance  if  you  be  the  lady  of  the  house,  that  I may 
proceed  in  my  speech. 

OH.  Are  you  a comedian  ? 

Vio.  No,  my  profound  heart : and  yet,  by  the  very  fangs 
of  malice  I swear  I am  not  that  I play.  Are  you  the  lady 
of  the  house  ? 

Oh.  If  I do  not  usurp  myself,  I am. 

Vto.  Most  certain,  if  you  are  she,  you  do  usurp  yourself; 
or  what  is  yours  to  bestow  is  hot  yours  to  reserve.  But  this 
IS  from  my  commission : I will  on  with  my  speech  in  your 
praise,  and  then  show  you  the  heart  of  my  message. 

Oh.  Come  to  what  is  important  in’t : I forgive  you  the 
praise. 

Vto.  Alas,  I took  great  pains  to  study  it,  and  ’tis  poetical. 
Oh.  It  IS  the  more  like  to  be  feigned  ; I pray  you,  keep 
It  in.  I heard  you  were  saucy  at  my  gates ; and  allow’d 
your  approach  rather  to  wonder  at  you  than  to  hear  you.  If 
you  be  mad,  be  gone;  if  you  have  reason,  be  brief;  ’tis  not 
that  time  of  Moon  with  me  to  make  one  in  so  skipping  a 
dialogue. 

Mar.  Will  you  hoist  sail,  sir?  here  lies  your  way. 

Via.  No,  good  swabber ; I am  to  hull  here  >8  a little  longer. 
Some  mollification  for  your  giant,i8  sweet  lady. 

^ H Comptible  IS  susceptible,  or  sensitive.  The  proper  meaning  of  the  word 
IS  accountable.  ° 

18  To  hull\s  a nautical  term,  probably  meaning  to  haul  in  sails  and  lay- 
to  without  coming  to  anchor.  Swabber  is  also  a nautical  term,  used  of  one 
who  attends  to  the  swabbing  or  eleaning  of  the  deek.  « 


SCENE  V. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


51 


on.  Tell  me  your  mind. 

Vio.  I am  a messenger.^®  _ 

on.  Sure,  you  have  some  hideous  matter  to  deliver,  when 
the  courtesy  of  it  is  so  fearful.  Speak  your  office. 

Vio  It  alone  concerns  your  ear.  I bring  no  overture  of 
war,  no  taxation  of  homage  : I hold  the  olive  in  my  hand ; 
my  words  are  as  full  of  peace  as  matter. 

on.  Yet  you  began  rudely.  What  are  you?  what  would 

you?  . , ^ , , , 

Vio.  The  rudeness  that  hath  appear’d  m me  have  I learn  d 

from  my  entertainment.  What  I am,  and  what  I would,  are 
as  secret  as  maidenhood : to  your  ears,  divinity , to  any 

other’s,  profanation.  , . ■ v 

on.  Give  us  the  place  alone  ; we  will  hear  this  divinity. 

l^Exit  Maria.]  — Now,  sir,  what  is  your  text? 

Vio.  Most  sweet  lady,— 

on.  A comfortable  21  doctrine,  and  much  may  be  said  of 
if.  Where  lies  your  text? 

Vio.  In  Orsino’s  bosom. 

on.  In  his  bosom  ! In  what  chapter  of  his  bosom? 

Vio.  To  answer  by  the  method,  in  the  first  of  his  heart. 
on.  O,  I have  read  it ; it  is  heresy.  Have  you  no  more 

to  say  ? 

Vio.  Good  madam,  let  me  see  your  face. 
on.  Have  you  any  commission  from  your  lord  to  nego- 
tiate with  my  face?  You  are  now  out  of  your  text ; but  we 


19  Ladies  in  romance  are  guarded  by  giants.  Viola,  seeing  the  waiting- 
maid  so  eager  to  oppose  her  message,  entreats  Olivia  to  pacify  her  gian  , 
alluding;  ironically,  to  the  small  stature  of  Maria.  • j u + 

“la-s  being  a messenger  implies  that  it  is  not  her  own  mmd.  but 

that  of  the  sender,  that  she  is  to  tell. 

21  Comfortable  for  comforting;  the  passive  form  with  the  active  sense. 
Often  so,  both  in  this  and  in  many  other  words. 


52 


act  l 


twelfth  night  ; or, 

will  draw  the  curtain,  and  show  you  the  picture.  Look  you 
sir,  such  a one  I was  this  present ; 29  is’t  not  well  done  ? 

TT.  „ „ \ Unveiling. 

Uw.  Excellently  done,  if  God  did  all. 

Oil.  Tis  in  grain,  sir ; ’twill  endure  wind  and  weather^^ 
yto.  Tis  beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  and  white 
Nature’s  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on : 

Lady,  you  are  the  cruell’st  she  alive. 

If  you  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave. 

And  leave  the  world  no  copy. 

Oh.  O sir,  I will  not  be  so  hard-hearted;  I will  give  out 
divers  schedules  of  my  beauty:  it  shall  be  inventoried,  and 
every  particle  and  utensil  labell’d  to  my  will : as,  item,  two 
lips,  indifferent  red; 23  item,  two  gray  eyes,24  with  lids  to 
them ; item,  one  neck,  one  chin,  and  so  forth.  Were  you 
sent  hither  to  ’praise  me? 25 

Via.  I see  you  what  you  are,  — you  are  too  proud ; 

But,  if  you  were  the  Devil,  you  are  fair. 

My  lord  and  master  loves  you  ; O,  such  love 
Could  be  but  recompensed,  though  you  were  crown’d 
The  nonpareil  of  beauty  ! 

How  does  he  love  me  ? 

Vio.  With  adorations,  with  fertile  tears,26 

22  It  is  ,0  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  idea  of  a picture  is  continued-  the  ' ‘ 

moment  ^ 

Indifferent  tolerably  Ki.  See  page  40,  note  23. 

Blue  eyes  were  called  gray  in  the  Poet's  time.  See  As  You  Tike  It 
page  92,  note  45.  ^ ’ 

25  1 o appraise  me.  or  set  a value  upon  me ; referring  to  the  inventory  she 
has  just  given  of  her  graces.  ^ 

Shakespeare 

in  tlm  ey{''^ "or  the  fruitful  xiv^x 


SCENE  V. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


With  groans  that  thunder  love,  with  sighs  of  fire. 

OH.  Your  lord  does  know  my  mind ; I cannot  love  him  : 
Yet  I suppose  him  virtuous,  know  him  noble, 

Of  great  estate,  of  fresh  and  stainless  youth ; 

In  voices  well  divulged,"^  free,  learn’d,  and  valiant ; 

And,  in  dimension  and  the  shape  of  nature, 

A gracious  person  ; but  yet  I cannot  love  him , 

He  might  have  took  his  answer  long  ago. 

Vio.  If  I did  love  you  in  my  master’s  flame, 

With  such  a suffering,  such  a deadly  love. 

In  your  denial  I would  find  no  sense  ; 

I would  not  understand  it. 

Why,  what  would  you? 

Vi-o.  Make  me  a willow  cabin  atp^our  gate, 

And  call  upon  my  soul  within  the  house ; 

Write  loyal  cantons  of  contemned  love. 

And  sing  them  loud  even  in  the  dead  of  night ; 

Holla  your  name  to  the  reverberate  hills. 

And  make  the  babbling  gossip  of  the  air^^ 

Cry  out,  Olivia  ! O,  you  should  not  rest 
Between  the  elements  of  air  and  earth. 

But  you  should  pity  me  ! » 

Oli.  You  might  do  much.  What  is  your  parentage . 
Vio.  Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well : 

I am  a gentleman. 

Qll  Get  you  to  your  lord  ; 

I cannot  love  him  : let  him  send  no  more  ; 


27  Meaning,  perhaps,  well  spoken  of,  well  voiced  in  the  public  mouth ; or 
it  marmean  well  refuted  for  knowledge  in  the  languages,  which  was 
esteemed  a great  accomplishment  in  the  Poet  s time. 

28  Cantons  is  the  old  English  word  for  cantos. 

29  A Shakespearian  expression  for  echo. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OK, 


ACT  I. 


nless,  perchance,  you  come  to  me  again, 

T o tell  me  how  he  takes  it.  Fare  you  well : 

I thank  you  for  your  pains  : spend  this  i^cjiie^ 

Vto.  I am  no  fee  d post,  lady ; keep  your  purse  : 

My  master,  not  myself,  lacks  recompense. 

Love  make  his  heart  of  flint,  that  you  shall  love  ; 

And  let  your  fervour,  like  my  master’s,  be 

Placed  in  contempt ! Farewell,  fair  cruelty.  \_Exit. 

Oli.  What  is  your  parentage  ? — 

Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well: 

I am  a gentleman.  Fll  be  sworn  thou  art ; 

Thy  tongue,  thy  face,  thy  limbs,  actions,  and  spirit. 

Do  give  thee  fivefold  blazon.  — Not  too  fast ; — 

Soft,  soft ! — 

, Unless  the  master  were  the  man.s®  — How  now  ! 

I Even  so  quickly  may  one  catch  the  plague  ? 
iMethinks  I feel  this  youth’s  perfections 
With  an  invisible  and  subtle  stealth 
To  creep  in  at  mine  eyes.  Well,  let  it  be.  — 

What,  ho,  Malvolio  ! 

Re-enter  Malvolio. 

Here,  madam,  at  your  service. 

Oh.  Run  after  that  same  peevish®'  messenger, 

The  County’s  man  : he  left  this  ring  behind  him, 

Would  I or  not : tell  him  Fll  none  of  it. 

Desire  him  not  to  flatter  with  his  lord, 

*»  Soft/  was  m frequent  use,  as  here,  for  stay!  not  too  fast!  Olivia 
means,  apparently,  that  her  passion  is  going  ahead  too  fast,  unless  Orsino  ' 
were  its  object,  who  is  Viola’s  ma.^ter. 

31  Poemshvf&s  commonly  used  for  foolish  or  childish;  hence,  perhaps, 
the  meaning  it  now  bears  of  fretful.  It  may  have  either  meaning  here  or 
both.  ° ’ 


SCENE  I. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


55 


Nor  hold  him  up  with  hopes  ; I am  not  for  him  : 

If  that  the  youth  will  come  this  way  to-morrow, 

I’ll  give  him  reasons  for’t.  Hie  thee,  Malvolio. 

MaL  Madam,  I will.  \^ExiL 

OH.  I do  I know  not  what ; and  fear  to  find 
Mine  eye  too  great  a flatterer  for  my  mind.^^ 

Fate,  show  thy  force  : ourselves  we  do  not  owe  ; 

What  is  decreed  must  be,  — and  be  this  so  ! ^\Exit. 


i 


ACT  n. 

Scene  I.  — The  Sea- coast. 

. / Enter  Antonio  and  Smastian.  ' 

ZMji,  JUaMjl.  . 'Lw.^ 

Ant.  Will  you  stay  no  longer?  nor  will  you  not  that  I go 


with  you  ^ 

Seb.  By  your  patience,  no 
me 
yours 


— \> 


i g'j  I 


My  stars  shine  darkly  over 

the  malignancy  of  my  fate  might  perhaps  distemper  ^ 

; therefore  I shall  crave  of  you  your  leave  that  I maym^J^^ 
bear  my  evils  alone  : it  were  a bad  recompense  for  your  love, 
to  lay  any  of  them  on  you. 

Ant.  Let  me  yet  know  of  you  whither  you  are  bound. 

Seh.  No,  sooth,  sir  : my  determinate  voyage  is  mere  ex- 


32  She  fears  that  her  eyes  have*  formed  so  flattering  an  idea  of  Cesario, 
that  she  will  not  have  the  strength  of  mind  to  resist  the  impression. 

33  We  are  not  our  own  masters ; we  cannot  govern  ourselves.  Owe  for 
own,  possess,  or  /lave  ; as  usual. 


56 


TWELFTFI  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  IT. 


travagancy.i  But  I perceive  in  you  so  excellent  a touch  of 
modesty,  that  you  will  not  extort  from  me  what  1 am  willing  ^ 
to  keep  in  ; therefore  it  charges  me  in  manners  the  rather  to 
express  myself.^  You  must  know  of  me,  then,  Antonio,  my 
name  is  Sebastian,  which  I called  Roderigo.  My  father  was 
that  Sebastian  of  Messaline  whom  I know  you  have  heard  of. 
He  left  behind  him  myself  and  a sister,  both  born  in  an  hour  : 
if  the  Heavens  had  been  pleased,  would  we  had  so  ended  !' 
but  you,  sir,  alter’d  that ; for  some  hour  before  you  took  me 
from  the  breach  of  the  sea  was  my  sister  drown’d. 

Ant,  Alas  the  day  ! 

Seb,  A lady,  sir,  though  it  was  said  she  much  resembled 
me,  was  yet  of  many  accounted  beautiful;  but,  though  I 
could  not,  with  such  an  estimable  wonder,  over-far  believe 
that,^  yet  thus  far  I will  boldly  publish  her,  — she  bore  a mind 
that  envy  could  not  but  call  fair.  She  is  drown’d  already,  sir, 
with  salt  water,  though  I seem  to  drown  her  remembrance 
again  with  more. 

Ant,  Pardon  me,  sir,  your  bad  entertainment. 

Seb,  O good  Antonio,  forgive  me  your  trouble  ! 

Ant,  If  you  will  not  murder  me  for  my  love,^  let  me  be 
your  servant. 

1 “ The  purpose  of  my  voyage  ends  with  the  voyage  itself,”  or,  ” I am 
travelling  merely  for  the  sake  of  travel,”  Extravagancy  is  used  in  the  Latin 
sense  of  going  at  large ; as  in  Hamlet,  i.  i : ” Th’  extravagant  and  erring 
spirit  hies  to  his  confine.” 

2 Willing  in  the  sense  of  choosing,  wishing,  <ox  preferring. 

8 To  declare  or  unfold  myself.  Sebastian  holds  himself  the  more  bound 
to  give  the  information,  inasmuch  as  Antonio’s  delicacy  keeps  him  from 
asking,  or  from  being  inquisitive. 

4 The  meaning  is,  ” Though  I could  not,  when  compared  with  a person 
of  such  admirable  beauty,  over-far  believe  that  I resembled  her.” 

^ This  may  refer  to  what  is  thus  delivered  by  Sir  Walter  Scott  \n  The 
Pirate  When  Mordaunt  has  rescued  Cleveland  from  the  sea,  and  is  trying 


SCENE  II. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


57 


Seb.  If  you  will  not  undo  what  you  have  done,  that  is, 
kill  him  whom  you  have  recover’d  desire  it  not.  Fare  ye 
well  at  once  : my  bosom  is  full  of  kindness  ; and  I am  yet  so 
near  the  manners  of  my  mother,  that,  upon  the  least  occasion 
more,  mine  eyes  will  tell  tales  of  me.  I am  bound  to  the 
<!:ount  Orsino’s  Court : farewell.  \^Exit. 

Ant,  The  gentleness  of  all  the  gods  go  with  thee  ! 
i have  many  enemies  in  Orsino’s  Court, 

Else  would  I very  shortly  see  thee  there  : 

But,  come  what  may,  I do  adore  thee  so. 

That  danger  shall  seem  sport,  and  I vv^ill  go.  \Exit 


Scene  II.  — A Street. 

Enter  Maly  olio  following. 

Mai.  Were  not  you  even  now  with  the  Countess  Olivia? 

Vio.  Even  now,  sir ; on  a moderate  pace  I have  since 
arrived  but  hither. 

Mai.  She  returns  this  ring  to  you,  sir : you  might  have 
saved  me  my  pains,  to  have  taken  it  away  yourself.  She 
adds,  moreover,  that  you  should  put  your  lord  into  a despe- 
rate assurance  she  will  none  of  him  : and  one  thing  more,  that 
you  be  never  so  hardy  to  come  again  in  his  affairs,  unless  it 
be  to  report  your  lord’s  taking  of  this.  Receive  it  so.^ 

to  revive  him,  Bryce  the  pedler  says  to  him, — “Are  you  mad?  you,  that 
have  so  long  lived  in  Zetland,  to  risk  the  saving  of  a drowning  man  ? Wot 
ye  not,  if  you  bring  him  to  life  again,  he  will  be  sure  to  do  you  some  capital 
injury?”  Sir  Walter  suggests  in  a note  that  this  inhuman  maxim  was 
.probably  held  by  the  islanders  of  the  Orkneys,  as  an  excuse  for  leaving  all 
to  perish  alone  who  were  shipwrecked  upon  their  coasts,  to  the  end  that 
there  might  be  nothing  to  hinder  the  plundering  of  their  goods ; which  of 
course  cpuld  not  well  be,  if  ^'Uy  of  the  owners  survived. 

i "Receive  it  so”  is  afuder stand  it  so.  Take  is  still  used  in  the  same  way 


! 


58 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  II. 


Vio.  She  took  no  ring  of  me  : I’ll  none  of  it. 

Mai.  Come,  sir,  you  peevishly  threw  it  to  her;  and  her 
will  is,  it  should  be  so  return’d  : if  it  be  worth  stooping  for, 
there  it  lies  in  your  eye ; if  not,  be  it  his  that  finds  it. 

\_Exit, 

Vio.  I left  no  ring  with  her : what  means  this  lady  ? 
Fortune  forbid,  my  outside  have  not  charm’d  her  ! 

She  made  good  view  of  me  ; indeed,  so  much. 

That,  as  methought,  her  eyes  had  lost  her  tongue, ^ 

For  she  did  speak  in  starts  distractedly. 

She  loves  me,  sure  ; the  cunning  of  her  passion 
Invites  me  in  this  churlish  messenger. 

None  of  my  lord’s  ring  ! why,  he  sent  her  none. 

I am  the  man  : if  it  be  so,  — as  ’tis, — 

Poor  lady,  she  were  better  love  a dream. 

Disguise,  I see  thou  art  a wickedness. 

Wherein  the  pregnant  ^ enemy  does  much. 

How  easy  is  it  for  the  proper- false  ^ 

In  woman’s  waxen  hearts  to  set  their  forms  ! 

Alas,  our  frailty  is  the  cause,  not  we  ! 

For,  such  as  we  are  made  of,  such  we  be.^ 

How  will  this  fadge  ? ® my  master  loves  her  dearly ; 


2 Her  eyes  were  so  charmed  that  she  lost  the  right  use  of  her  tongue,  and 
let  it  run  as  if  it  were  divided  from  her  judgment. 

3 Pregnant  is  quick-witted^  cunning. 

4 Proper  is  here  used  in  the  sense  of  handsome  : the  meaning  of  the  pas- 
sage being,  “ How  easy  it  is  for  handsome  deceivers  to  print  their  forms  in 
the  waxen  hearts  of  women.”  Such  compounds  as  proper-false  are  no) 
unusual  in  Shakespeare.  Beauteous-evil  occurs  in  this  play. 

5 Such  evidently  refers  to  frailty  in  the  preceding  line ; the  sense  being, 
" Since  we  are  made  of  frailty,  we  must  needs  be  frail.” 

6 Fad^i^e,  meaning yf/or  suit^  was  a polite  v ord  in  Shakespeare’s  time,  and 
moved,  witliout  question,  in  the  best  circles. 


SCENE  III. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


And  I,  poor  monster,"^  fond  as  much  on  him, 
As  she,  mistaken,  seems  to  dote  on  me. 

What  will  become  of  this?  As  I am  man. 

My  state  is  desperate  for  my  master’s  love ; 

As  I am  woman,  — now,  alas  the  day  ! — 

What  thriftless  sighs  shall  poor  Olivia  breathe  ! 
O Time,  thou  must  untangle  this,  not  I ; 

It  is  too  hard  a knot  for  me  t’  untie  ! 


Scene  III. — A Room  in  Olivia’s  Hotm. 


Enter  Toby  Belch  and  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek. 

Sir  To.  -i^p^‘3^  Sir  Andrew : not  to  be  a-bed  after 
midnight  is  to  be  up  betimes : and  diluculo  surgere,^  thou 


know’st, — 

Sir  And.  Nay,  by  my  troth,  I know  not : but  I know,  to 
be  up  late  is  to  be  up  late. 

Sir  To.  A false  conclusion : I hate  it  as  an  unfill’d  can. 
To  be  up  after  midnight,  and  to  go  to  bed  then,  is  early  : so 
that,  to  go  to  bed  after  midnight,  is  to  go  to  bed  betimes. 
Does  not  our  life  consist  of  the  four  elements?^ 

Sir  And.  Faith,  so  they  say ; but  I think  it  rather  con- 
sists of  eating  and  drinking. 

Sir  To.  Thou’rt  a scholar  ; let  us  therefore  eat  and  drink. 
— Maria,  I say  ! a stoup^  of  wine  ! 


7 Viola  calls  herself  monster  from  the  fact  of  her  being,  in  a manner,  both 

woman  and  man.  . , 

1 Diluculo  surgere,  saluberrimum  est.  This  adage  is  in  Lily  s Grammar, 
It  means,  “ To  rise  betimes  is  very  wholesome.” 

2 The  four  elements  referred  to  are  earth,  water,  air,  and  fire;  the  right 
S mixing  of  which  was  suposed  to  be  the  condition  of  health  in  body  and 

mind. 

3 Stoup  is  an  old  word  for  cup  ; often  used  by  the  Poet. 


6o 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  II, 


Sir  And,  Here  comes  the  Fool,  i’  faith. 
Enter  the 


Clo.  How  now,  my  hearts  ! did  you  never  see  the  picture 
of  We  Three 


Sir  To,  Welcome^ass^  Now  let’s  have  a catch. 


Sir  And,  By  my  troth,  the  Fool  has  an  excellent  breast. ^ 
I had  rather  than  forty  shillings  I had  such  a leg,  and  so 
sweet  a breath  to  sing,  as  the  Fool  has. In  sooth,  thou  wast 
in  very  gracious  fooling  last  night,  when  thou  spokest  of  Pi- 
grogromitus,  of  the  Vapians  passing  the  equinoctial  of  Queu- 
bus  : ’twas  very  good,  i’faith.  I sent  thee  sixpence  for  thy 
leman  : ^ hadst  it  ? 

Clo,  I did  impeticos  thy  gratillity  for  Malvolio’s  nose  is 
no  whipstock  ; my  lady  has  a white  hand,  and  the  Myrmidons 
are  no  bottle-ale  houses. 

Sir  And.  Excellent ! why,  this  is  the  best  fooling,  when 
all  is  donej  Now,  a song. 

Sir  To,  Come  on  ; there  is  sixpence  for  you  : let’s  have  a 
. song. 

Sir  And,  There’s  a testril^  of  me  too  : if  one  knight  give 
a — 

4 Alluding  to  an  old  common  sign  representing  two  fools  or  loggerheads, 
under  which  was  inscribed,  “ We  three  loggerheads  be”;  the  point  of  the 
joke  being,  of  course,  that  the  spectator  was  the  third. 

5 Breast  was  often  used  for  voice  in  the  Poet’s  time.  Thus  we  have  the 
phrase,  ” singing  men  well-breasted:'  This  use  of  the  word  grew  from  the 
form  of  the  breast  having  much  to  do  with  the  quality  of  the  voice. 

® Leman  is  mistress  or  sweetheart. 

Impetticoat,  or  impocket,  gratuity.  Some  have  complained  seriously 
that  they  could  not  understand  the  Clown  in  this  scene ; which  is  shre^ 
j)roof  they  did  not  understand  the  Poet ! 

8 The  testril  or  testern  was  originally  a French  coin,  of  sixpence  v 
thereabouts ; so  called  from  having  a teste  or  head  stamped  upon  it. 


SCiiNE  III. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


Clo,  Would  you  have  a love-song,  or  a song  of  goc 
Sit"  To,  A love-song,  a love-song. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  ay  : I care  not  for  good  life. 


SONG.^®  ^ 

Clo.  O mistress  mine^  where  are  you  roaming? 

O,  stay  and  hear ; your  true-love' s comings 
That  can  sing  both  high  and  low: 

Trip  no  further^  pretty  sweeting; 

Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meetings 
EiVery  wise  man' s son  doth  knoWm 

Sir  And,  Excellent  good,  i’  faith. 

Sir  To,  Good,  good. 

Clo.  What  is  love  ? 'tis  not  hereafter; 

Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter  ; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure: 

In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty  ; 

Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet- and- twenty}^ 

Youth's  a stuff  will  not  endure. 

Sir  And,  A mellifluous  voice,  as  I am  true  knight. 

Sir  To,  A contagious  breath. 

Sir  And,  Very  sweet  and  contagious,  i’faith.  ^ 

9 That  is,  a civil  and  virtuous  song ; so  described  in  The  Mad  Pranks  of 
Robin  Goodfellow, 

11  This  song  probably  was  not  written  by  Shakespeare.  Chappell,  m 
his  Popular  Music  of  the  Olden  Time,  says  the  tune  is  in  Queen  Elizabeth's 
Virginal  Book,  arranged  by  Byrd.  He  also  says  it  was  printed  in  1599 ; and 
from  this  he  concludes  “ either  that  Shakespeare's  Twelfth  Night  was  writ- 
ten in  or  before  that  year,  or  that  in  accordance  with  the  then  prevailing 
custom,  O mistress  mine  was  an  old  song,  introduced  into  the  play.”  Dyce 
•links  " the  latter  supposition  is  doubtless  the  true  one. 

t Sweet-and-twenty  appears  to  have  been  an  old  term  of  endearment. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  II. 


To  hear  by  the  nose,  it  is  dulcet  in  contagion, 
shall  we  make  the  welkin  dance  indeed?  12  shall  we 
rouse  the  night-owl  in  a catch  that  will  draw  three  souls  out 
of  one  weaver  ? ^3  shall  we  do  that^  oD  ^ ' 

Sir  And.  An  you  love  me,  let’s  do’t : I am  dog  at  a 
catch. 

Clo.  By’r  Lady,  sir,  and  some  dogs  will  catch  well. 

Sir  And.  Most  certain.  Let  our  catch  be,  Thou  knave. 

Clo.  Hold  thy  peace , thou  knave,  knight?  I shall  be 
constrained  in’t  to  call  thee  knave,  knight. 

Sir  And,  ’Tis  not  the  first  time  I have  constrained  one  to 
call  me  knave.  Begin,  Fool : it  begins.  Hold  thy  peace. 

Clo,  I shall  never  begin,  if  I hold  my  peace. 

Sir  And.  Good,  i’faith.  Come,  begin. 

\_They  sing  the  catch. 

Enter  Maria. 


Mar.  What  a caterwauling  do  you  keep  here  ! If  my  lady 
have  not  call’d  up  her  steward  Malvolio,  and  bid  him  turn 
you  out  of  doors,  never  trust  me. 

Sir  To.  My  lady’s  a Cataian,!^  we  are  politicians;  Mal- 
volio s a Peg-a- Ramsey,  and  Three  merry . men  be  we.  Am 
not  I consanguineous  ? am  I not  of  her  blood  ? Tilly- vally, 
|^^^yii?^[Sings.]  There  dwelt  a man  in  Babylon,  lady,  lady  ! 

Clo.  Beshrew  me,  the  knight’s  in  admirable  fooling. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  he  does  well  enough  if  he  be  disposed,  and 


12  Drink  till  the  sky  seems  to  turn  round. 

13  Shakespeare  represents  weavers  as  much  given  to  harmony  in  his 
time.  Sir  Toby  meant  that  the  catch  should  be  so  harmonious  that  it  would' 
hale  the  soul  out  of  a weaver  thrice  over. 

14  This  word  generally  signified  a sharper.  Sir  Toby  is  too  drunk  fo^ 
precision,  and  uses  it  merely  as  a term  of  reproach. 

13  An  interjection  of  contempt,  equivalent  to  fiddle-faddle. 


SCENE  III. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


MaL  My  masters,  are  you  mad?  or  what  are  you?  Have 
you  no  wit,  manners,  nor  honesty,  but  to  gabble  like  tinkers 
at  this  time  of  night  ? Do  you  make  an  alehouse  of  my  lady’s 
house,  that  ye  squeak  out  your  coziers’  catches  without 
any  mitigation  or  remorse  of  voice  ? Is  there  no  respect  of 
place,  persons,  nor  time,  in  you  ? 

Sir  T We  did  keep  time,  sir,  in  our  catches.  Snick- 
up  ! iaA  cUlo  ^ < : A 

MaL  Sir  Toby,  I must  be  round  20  with  you.  My  lady 
bade  me  tell  you,  that,  though  she  harbours  you  as  her  kins- 


nan,  she’s  nothing  allied  to  your  disorders, 
xate  yourself  and  your  misdemeanours. 


If  you  can  sep- 
you  are  welcome  to 


16  This  is  not  the  interjectional  O,  but  the  elided  preposition  on  or  of, 

17  With  Sir  Toby  as  wine  goes  in  music  comes  out,  and  fresh  songs  keep 
bubbling  up  in  his  memory  as  he  waxes  mellower.  A similar  thing  occurs 
in  2 Henry  IV.,  where  Master  Silence  grows  merry  and  musical  amidst  h' 
cups  in  “ the  sweet  of  the  night.”  Of  the  ballads  referred  to  by  Sir  T 
O'  the  twelfth  day  of  December  is  entirely  lost.  Percy  has  one  stanza  o 
dwelt  a man  in  Babylon,  which  he  describes  as  “ a poor  dull  per 
and  very  long.”  Three  merry  men  be  we  seems  to  have  been  the 
several  old  songs,  one  of  which  was  called  Robin  Hood  an 
Peg-a-Ramsey,  or  Peggy  Ramsey,  was  an  old  popular  tune  w 
ballads  fitted  to  it.  Thou  kiiave  was  a catch  which,  sa” 

” appears  to  be  so  contrived  that  each  of  the  sin'’ 
in  turn.” 

^ 18  Coziers  is  botchers,  whether  botching 

19  Snick-Mp  was  an  exclamation  of  c 
yourself,”  or  ” go  and  be  hanged.” 

29  Round  is  downright  ox  plain-spoke 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  II. 


house ; if  not,  an  it  would  please  you  to  take  leave  of 
her,  she  is  very  willing  to  bid  you  farewell. 

Sir  To.  [Sings.]  Farewell,  dear  heart,  since  I must  needs 
begone?^  - ' 

Mar.  Nay,  good  Sir  Toby. 

Clo.  [Sings.]  His  eyes  do  show  his  days  are  almost  done. 
Mai.  Is’t  even  so  ? 

Sir  To.  [Sings.]  But  I will  never  die.  1 ' ' ' ' 

Clo.  Sir  Toby,  there  you  lie.  .y*(j 

Mai.  This  is  much  credit  to  you. 

Sir  To.  [Sings.]  Shall  I bid  him  go  ? 

Clo.  [Sings.]  What  an  if  you  do  ? \ \ 

Sir  To.  [Sings.]  Shall  I bid  him  go,  and  spare  not? 

Clo.  [Sings.]  O,  no,  no,  no,  no,  you  dare  not. 

/ Sir  To.  Out  o’  time,  sir?  ye  lie.  Art  any  more  than  a 
Steward?  Dost  thou  think,  because  thou  art  virtuous,  there 
shall  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale  ? 

^ Clo.  Yes,  by  Saint  Anne  3 and  ginger  shall  be  hot  i’  the 
mouthy  j! 

I'W’rtl’  the  rub  your  chain 

with  crumbs.®P^2'X  st^p  M’kria  ! 

Mai.  Mistress  Mary,  if  you  prized  my  lady’s  favour  at  any 


■ is  the  first  line  of  an  old  ballad,  entitled  Corydoris  Farewell  to 
was  inserted  in  Percy's  Reliques  from  an  ancient  miscellany, 
"nlden  Garland  of  Princely  Delights.  The  musical  dialogue 
en  Sir  Toby  and  the  Clown  is  adapted  to  their  purpose 
zas  of  the  ballad. 


SCENE  III. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


65 


thing  more  than  contempt,  you  would  not  give  means  for  this 
uncivil  rule  : she  shall  know  of  it,  by  this  hand. 

Mar.  Go  shake  your  ears.^^ 

Sir  And.  ’Twere  as  good  a deed  as  to  drink  when  a 
man’s  a-hungry,  to  challenge  him  the  field,  and  then  to 
break  promise  with  him,  and  make  a fool  of  him.  q,  , f aJ^, 

Sir  To.  Do/^  knight : I’ll  write  thee  a challen^  ; or  r|' 
deliver  thy  indignation  to  him  by  word  of  mouth. 

Mar.  Sweet  Sir  Toby,  be  patient  for  to-night : since  the 
youth  of  the  Count’s  was  to-day  with  my  lady,  she  is  much 
out  of  quiet.  For  Monsjeur  Malvolio,  let  me  alone  with  him  -. 
if  I do  not  gull  him  mto  a nayword,^'*  and  make  him  a com- 
mon recreation,  do  not  think  I have  wit  enough  to  lie  straight 
in  my  bed  : know  I can  do  it. 

Sir  'Possess  us,^^  possess  us ; tell  us  something  of  him. 

Mar^  Marry,  sir,  sometimes  he  is  a kind  of  Puritan. 

Sir  And.  O,  if  I thought  that.  I’d  beat  him  like  a dog  ! 

Sir  To.  What,  for  being  a Puritan  ? thy  exquisite  reason, 
dear  knight? 

Sir  And.  I have  no  exquisite  reason  for’t,  but  I have  rea- 
son good  enough. 

Mar.  The  Devil  a Pilritifa  that  h^  is,  or  any  thing  con- 
stantly, but  a time-pleaser ; an  affection’d  ass,^®  that  cons 
State  without  book,  and  utters  it  by  great  swaths  ; the  best 

23  “ Shake  your  ears  ” is  probably  used  as  a metaphor  implying  that  Mal- 
volio has  long  ears  ; in  other  words,  that  he  is  an  ass. 

24  Nay-word  here  means  by-word  or  laughing-stock.  So  defined  in  an  old 
dictionary.  Elsewhere  the  Poet  has  it  in  the  sense  of  watch-word. 

25  Possess  for  inform;  a very  frequent  usage.  See  The  Merchant,  page 
97,  note  12. 

26  An  affected  ass.  Affection  was  often  used  for  affectation. 

27  By  great  parcels  or  heaps.  Swaths  are  the  rows  of  grass  left  by  the 
scythe  of  the  mower.  Maria  means  that  he  is  full  o^-  political  strut,  and 
spouts  arguments  of  State  by  rote. 


66 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  II. 


persuaded  of  himself,  so  cramm’d,  as  he  thinks,  with  excel- 
lencies, that  it  is  his  ground  of  faith,  that  all  that  look  on 
him  love  him  ; and  on  that  vice  in  him  will  my  revenge  find 
notable  cause  to  work. 

Sir  To.  What  wilt  thou  do  ? 

Mar.  I will  drop  in  his  way  some  obscure  epistles  of 
love ; wherein,  by  the  colour  of  his  beard,  the  shape  of  his 
leg,  the  manner  of  his  gait,  the  expressure  of  his  eye,  fore- 
head, and  complexion,  he  shall  find  himself  most  feelingly 
personated  : I can  write  very  like  my  lady,  your  niece ; on 
a forgotten  matter  we  can  hardly  make  distinction  of  our  hands. 
'^Sh.Sir  To.  Excellent ! I smell  a device. 

Sir  And.  I have’t  in  my  nose  too. 

Sir  To.  He  shall  think,  by  the  letters  that  thou  wilt  drop, 
that  they  come  from  my  niece,  and  that  she’s  in  love  with  him. 
\Mar.  My  purpose  is,  indeed,  a horse  of  that  colour. 

And  your  horse  now  would  make  him  an  ass. 

Mar.  Ass,  I doubt  not. 

Sir  And.  O,  ’twill  be  admirable  ! 

Mar.  Sport  royal,  I warrant  you  : I know  my  physic  will 
work  with  him.  I will  plant  you  two,  and  let  the  Fool  make 
a third,  where  he  shall  find  the  letter : observe  his  construc- 
tion of  it.  For  this  night,  to  bed,  and  dream  on  the  event. 
Farewell.  , 

Sir  To.  Good  night,  Penthesilea.^^  : , \^Exit  Maria.  ^ 

Sir  And.  Before  me,  she’s  a good  wench. 

Sir  To.  She’s  a beagle,^^  true-bred,  and  one  that  adores 
me  : what  o’  that  ? 

.4 

28  Penthesilea  was  Queen  of  the  Amazons,  and  killed  by  Achilles  in  the 
Trojan  War;  politely. 

2'*^  A beagle  was  a small  hound,  and  a keen  hunter ; applied  to  Maria 
from  her  l^revity  of  person  and  sharpness  of  wit. 


SCENE  IV. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


67 


Sir  And.  I was  adored  once  too. 

Sir  To.  Let’s  to  bed,  knight.  Thou  hadst  need  send  for 
more  money. 

Sir  And.  If  I cannot  recover  your  niece,  I am  a foul  way 
out. 

Sir  To.  Send  for  money,  knight ; if  thou  hast  her  not  i’ 
the  end,  call  me  cut.^® 

Sir  And.  If  I do  not,  never  trust  me,  take  it  how  you 
will. 

Sir  To.  Come,  come  ; I’ll  go  burn  some  sack;3i  >tis  too 
late  to  go  to  bed  now : come,  knisfht ; come,  knight.  ^ Exeunt,  n 


Scene  IV.  — An  Apartment  in  the  Duke’s  Palace.'^ 
Enter  the  Duke,  Viola,  Curio,  and  others. 

Duke.  Give  me  some  music  : — now,  good  morrow,  friends. — 
Now,  good  Cesari9,  but  that  piece  of  song. 

That  old  aniT^itique  song  we  heard  last  night ; 

Methought  it  did  relieve  my  passion  much. 

More  than  light  airs  and  recollected  terms 
Of  these  most  brisk  and  giddy-paced  times. 

30  tut  was  a common  contraction  of  curtail.  One  of  the  carriers’  horses 
in  Henry  IV.  is  called  Cut. 

31  Sack  is  an  old  term  for  sherry  wine,  which  appears  to  have  been  Sir 
Toby’s  favourite  beverage,  as  it  was  also  Falstaff’s.  The  phrase  “ 
sack  ” occurs  twice  in  The  Merry  Wives ; perhaps  a preparation  of  sack 
and  other  ingredients  finished  for  the  mouth,  as  flip  used  to  be,  by  thrusting 


a rei-hot  iron  into  it. 


1 This  is  commonly  explained  as  meaning  repeated  terms,  or  the  repeti- 
tion  of  poetical  and  musical  phrases.  Some  think  terms  refers  to  a sort  of 
lyrical  embroidery  made  by  running  culled  expressions  together,  and  so 
lacking  the  plainness  and  simplicity  that  goes  to  the  heart.  Old  and  an- 
tique, two  lines  before,  is  not  a pleonasm,  antique  carrying  a sense  of  quaint- 
ness  as  well  as  of  age. 


68 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  II. 


Come,  but  one  verse. 

Cur.  He  is  not  here,  so  please  your  lordship,  that  should 
sing  it. 

Duke,  Who  was  it? 

Cur.  Feste,  the  jester,  my  lord ; a Fool  that  the  Lady 
Olivia’s  father  took  much  delight  in  : he  is  about  the  house. 
Duke.  Go  seek  him  out : — and  play  the  tune  the  while.  — 

. \_Exit  Curio.  Music. 

Come  hither,  boy  : if  ever  thou  shalt  love, 

In  the  sweet  pangs  of  it  remember  me  ; 

For  such  as  I am  all  true  lovers  are, *7  ■ ' ' 

XJnstaid  and  skittish  in  all  motions  else. 

Save  in  the  constant  image  of  the  creature 
^ That  is  beloved.  How  dost  thou  like  this  tune? 

fzo.  It  gives  a very  echo  to  the  seat 
\ Where  Love  is  throned. 

Thou  dost  speak  masterly  : 

My  life  upon’t,  young  though  thou  art,  thine  eye 
Hath  stay’d  upon  some  favour  ^ that  it  loves  : 

Hath  it  not,  boy? 

A little,  by  your  favour. 

Duke,  What  kind  of  woman  is’t? 

Of  your  complexion. 
Duke.  She  is  not  worth  thee,  then.  What  years,  i’faith  ? 
— . -Vto,  About  your  years,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Too  old,  by  Heaven  : let  still  the  woman  take 
An  elder  than  herself ; so  wears  she  to  him. 

So  sways  she  level  in  her  husband’s  heart : . ' > 

For,  boy,  however  we  do  praise  ourselves,  ^ : 

Our  fancies  are  more  giddy  and  unfirm,  c ' ’ ' ! 

‘■2  Favour  iox  feature.  Viola  in  her  reply  plays  apon  the  word. 


SCENE  IV. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


69 


More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  and  won. 
Than  women’s  are. 

Vw.  I think  it  well,  my  lord. 


I think  it  well,  my  lord. 


Duke,  Then  let  thy  love  be  younger  than  thyself,  ^ ^ ^ 
Or  thy  affection  cannot  hold  the  bent  j 
For  women  are  as  roses,  whose  fair  flower, 

;Being  once  display’d,  doth  fall  that  very  hour. 

And  so  they  are  : alas,  that  they  are  so,  — 

To  die,  even  when  they  to  perfection  grow  ! 


Re-enter  Curio  with  the  Clown. 


Duke,  O,  fellow,  come,  the  song  we  had  last  night.  — 
Mark  it,  Cesario ; ’it  is  old  and  plain  : 

The  spinsters  and  the  knitters  in  the  sun, 

And  the  free^  maids  that  weave  their  thread  with  bones, 

Do  use  to  chant  it : it  is  silly  sooth,^ 

And  dallies  with  the  innocence  of  love. 

Like  the  old  age.^ 

Clo,  Are  you  ready,  sir? 

I Duke,  Ay ; pr’ythee,  sing.  \Mustc, 


Song. 


Clo.  Come  away,  come  away,  death, 

**7""  And  in  sad  cypress^  let  me  be  laid ; 

Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath  ; 

3 Free  appears  to  have  been  often  used  in  the  sense  of  pure  or  chaste. 
So,  in  The  Winter's  Tale,  ii.  3,  Hermione  is  described  as  “ a gracious  inno- 
cent soul,  more  free  than  he  is  jealous.”  It  may,  however,  mean  frank, 
unsuspecting ; the  proper  style  of  a plain  and  guileless  heart. 

4 Silly  sooth  is  simple  truth. 

5 The  old  age  is  the  ages  past,  times  of  simplicity. 

6 Cypress  wood  was  thought  to  be  the  fittest  for  coffins.  — Come  away 
here  means  come  on,  or  come,  simply.  Repeatedly  so. 


70 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  II. 


/ am  slam  hy  a fair  cruel  maid. 

My  shroud  of  ivhite,  stuck  all  with  yew ^ 

Oy  prepare  it ! 

My  part  of  death,  no  one  so  true 
• Did  share  it? 

Not  a flower,  not  a flower  sweet. 

On  my  black  cojfin  let  there  be  strown  ; 

Not  a friend,  not  a friend  greet 

My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be  thrown  : 

A thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Lay  me,  O,  ivhere 

Sad  true-love  never  find  my  grave. 

To  weep  there  / 

Duke.  There for  thy  pains. 

Clo.  No  pains,  sir ; I take  pleasure  in  singing,  sir. 

Duke.  I’ll  pay  thy  pleasure,  then. 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  and  pleasure  will  be  paid  one  time  or 
another. 

Duke.  Give  me  now  leave  to  leave  thee.®  W 

Clo.  Now  the  melancholy  god  protect  thee;  and  tn? 
tailor  make  thy  doublet  of  changeable  taffeta,  for  thy  mind 
is  a very  opal ! ^ I would  have  men  of  such  constancy  put 

7 Death  is  a part  in  the  drama  of  life,  which  all  have  to  undergo  or  to 
act ; and  the  thought  here  seems  to  be,  that,  “ of  all  the  actors  who  have 
shared  in  this  common  lot,  I am  the  truest,”  or,  ” no  one  has  been  so  true 
as  I.” 

8 Probably  the  Duke’s  polite  way  of  requesting  the  Clown  to  leave.  Some, 
however,  think  the  text  corrupt ; and  so  indeed  it  may  be. 

^ The  opal  is  a gem  that  varies  its  hues,  as  it  is  viewed  in  different  lights, 
like  what  is  sometimes  called  changeable  silk,  that  is,  taffeta.  “ The  melan- 
choly god”  is  Saturn;  hence  the  word  saturnine^  which  means  sad  or 
gloomy. 


SCENE  IV. 


to  sea, 

intent'  e very  where  ; for  that’s  it  that  always  makes  a 
voyage  of  nothing.  Farewell. 

Duke,  Let  all  the  rest  give  place.  - 

\_Exeunt  Curio  and  Attendanl 
Once  more,  Cesario^ 
Get  thee  to  yond  same  sovereign  cruelty  : 

Tell  her,  my  love,  more  noble  than  the  world, 

Prizes  not  quantity  of  dirty  lands  ; 

The  parts  that  Fortune  hath  bestow’d  upon  her, 

/ell  her,  I hold  as  giddily  as  Fortune 
|dut  ’tis  that  miracle  and  queen  of  gems. 

That  nature  pranks  her  in,  attracts  my  soul. 

'Vio,  But  if  she  cannot  love  you,  sir? 

Duke,  I cannot  be  so  answer’d. 

Vio,  Sooth,  but  you  must. 

Say  that  some  lady  — as,  perhaps,  there  is  — 

|Hath  for  your  love  as  great  a pang  of  heart 
\.s  you  have  for  Olivia  : you  cannot  love  her ; 

\Vovi  tell  her  so ; must  she  not,  then,  be  answer’d? 

Duke.  There  is  no  woman’s  sides 
ICan  bide  the  beating  of  so  strong  a passion 
■As  love  doth  give  my  heart ; no  woman’s  heart 
[So  big,  to  hold  so  much  ; they  lack  retention.^® 
lAlas,  their  love  may  be  call’d  appetite,  — 

I No  motion  of  the  liver,  but  the  palate, — 


Retention  here  evidently  has  the  sense  of  capacity.  A rather  singular 
fuse  of  the  word;  but  the  Poet  has  it  so  again  in  his  I22d  Sonnet:  “That 
[ poor  retention  could  not  hold  so  much.”  — “ So  big,  to  hold  ” is  “ so  big,  as 
I to  hold  ” ; an  ellipsis  occurring  very  often. 

^ i The  liver  was  thought  to  be  the  special  seat  of  love  and  courage.  See 
I page  31,  note  7. 


ACT  IT 


Fsue 

rmine  iWuas  hungry  as  the  sea, 
can  digest  as  much  :j^ake  no  compare 


\ 


\ 


rtween  that  love  a woman  can  bear  me 
tnd  that  I owe  Olivia. 

Vio,  Ay,  but  I know,  — 

Duke,  What  dost  thou  know  ? 

-'Vio,  Too  well  what  love  women  to  men  may  owe  : 

In  faith,  they  are  as  true  of  heart  as  we. 

My  father  had  a daughter  loved  a man. 

As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I a woman,  \ 

I should  your  lordship. 

Duke,  And  what’s  her  history  ? 

A- blank,  my  lord.  She  never  told  her  love, 

I But  let  concealment,  like  a worm  i’  the  bud. 

Feed  on  her  damask  cheek  : she  pined  in  thought ; 

' I And,  with  a green  and  yellow  melancholy, 

I She  sat,  like  Patience  on  a monument, 

Bmiling  at  grief. Was  not  this  love  indeed? 

We  men  may  say  more,  swear  more  : but,  indeed. 

Our  shows  are  more  than  will ; for  still  we  prove 
Much  in  our  vows,  but  little  in  our  love.  \ 

Duke,  But  died  thy  sister  of  her  love,  my  boy  ? 

' — ■ Vio,  I’m  all  the  daughters  of  my  father’s  House,  . 
And  all  the  brothers  too  ; — and  yet  I know  not. 


12  The  meaning  is,  “ she  wasted  away  through  grief.”  So  in  HamletJ 
soliloquy : ” The  native  hue  of  resolution  is  sicklied  o’er  with  the  pale  caj 
of  thought  ” ; that  is,  the  pale  complexion  of  grief.  And  in  Julius 
ii.  I ; “ If  he  love  Caesar,  all  that  he  can  do  is  to  himself;  take  thought  ani 
die  for  Caesar  ” ; where  take  thought  and  die  means  ” grieve  himself  tl 
death.”  So,  again,  in  St.  Matthew,  vi.  25 : “ Take  no  thought  for  your  lifej 
what  ye  shall  eat,  or  what  ye  shall  drink ; ” &c. 

18  She  sat  smiling  at  grief  as  the  image  of  Patience  sits  on  a monument.  | 


SCENE  V. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


73 


Sir,  shall  I to  this  lady  ? 
Duke. 


Ay,  that’s  the  theme. 


To  her  in  haste  ; give  her  this  jewel ; say. 

My  love  can  give  no  place,  bide  no  denay.^'*  {^Exeunt. 


/Scene  V.  — Olivia’s  Garden. 


Enter  Sir^om  Belch,  Andrew  AGUEgagEK,  andYmim. 

Sir  To.  Come  thy  ways,  Signior  Fabian. 

Fab.  Nay,  I’ll  come  : if  I lose  a scruple  of  this  sport,  let 
me  be  boil’d  to  death  with  melancholy.i 

Sir  To.  Wouldst  thou  not  be  glad  to  have  the  niggardly 
rascally  sheep-biter ^ come  by  some  notable  shame?  . 

Fab.  I would  exult,  man : you  know  he  brought  me  out 
o’  favour  with  my  lady  about  a bear-baiting  here. 


14  Denay  is  an  old  forfn  of  denial ; used  here  for  the  rhyme. 


1 Melancholy  must  be  used  here  to  signify  a form  of  madness  or  lunacy  ; 
something  such  as  Milton  has  in  view,  in  Paradise  Lost,  x.  i..  485 : “ De- 
moniac frenzy,  moping  melancholy,  and  moon-struck  madness.”  Shake- 
speare repeatedly  supposes  the  brains  of  crazy  people  to  be  in  a boiling  or 
highly  feverish  state ; as  in  A Midsummer,  v.  i : “ Lovers  and  madmen 
have  such  seething  brains.” 

2 Sheep-biter,  says  Dyce,  was  ” a cant  term  for  a thief.'  But  I do  not 
well  see  how  it  should  be  applied  to  Malvolio  in  that  sense.  In  Measure 
for  Measure,  v.  i,  Lucio  says  to  the  Duke,  who  is  disguised  as  a Friar, 
” Show  your  knave’s  visage,  with  a pox  to  you ! show  your  sheep-biting 
face.”  Here  sheep-biting,  as  also  sheep-biter  in  the  text,  seems  to  have  the 
sense  of  morose,  censorious,  fault-finding,  or  given  to  biting  unoffending 
persons  with  harsh  language.  In  Chapman’s  May-Day,  iii.  i,  a lecherous, 
intriguing  old  rogue,  named  Lorenzo,  has  a sharp  trick  played  upon  him 
by  his  nephew  Lodovico,  who  speaks  of  him  as  follows  : ” Alas,  poor  uncle, 
I have  monstrously  abused  him ; and  yet  marvellous  worthy,  for  he  dis- 
parageth  the  whole  blood  of  us ; and  I wish  all  such  old  sheep-biters  might 
dip  their  fingers  in  such  sauce  to  their  mutton,” 


'v/4 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


act  II. 


Sir  To,  To  anger  him,  we’ll  have  the  bear  again ; and  we 
will  fool  him  black  and  blue  : ^ — shall  we  not,  Sir  Andrew  ? 
Sir  And,  An  we  do  not,  it  is  pity  of  our  lives. 

Sir  To,  Here  comes  the  little  villain. 


Enter  Maria. 


How  now,  my  metal  of  India  ! ^ 

.,^Mar.  Get  ye  all  three  into  the  box-tree : Malvolio’s  com- 
ing down  this  walk : he  has  been  yonder  i’  the  sun  practising 
behaviour  to  his  own  shadow  this  half  hour : observe  him, 
for  the  love  of  mockery ; for  I know  this  letter  will  make  a 
contemplative  idiot  of  him.  Close,  in  the  name  of  jesting  ! 
[^T/ie  men  hide  themselves — Lie  thou  there;  \_Throws 
down  a letteril\  for  here  comes  the  trout  that  must  be  caught 
with  tickling.  \^Exit, 

Enter  Malvolio. 


Mai,  Tis  but  fortune ; all  is  fortune.  Maria  once  told 
me  sTie  did  affect  me  : and  I have  heard  herself  come  thus 
near,  that,  should  she  fancy,  it  should  be  one  of  my  com- 
plexion. Besides,  she  uses  me  with  a more  exalted  respect 
than  any  one  else  that  follows  her.  What  should  I think 
on’t  ? . 

Sir  To,  Here’s  an  overweening  rogue  ! 


2t  vvom  the 


3 I can  hardly  imagine  what  this  means,  having  never  met  wftlT  the 
phrase  anywhere  else,  that  I remember.  What  it  is  to  be  flogged  black  and 
blue  I have  ample  cause  to  know : but  to  be  fooled  black  and  blue,  what  is 
it  ? Is  it  to  mock  one,  till  he  turns  black  in  the  face  from  anger  and  vexa- 
tion ? The  best  I can  do  with  it  is  by  quoting  from  one  of  Mr.  Mantalini’s 
speeches  in  Nicholas  Nickleby  : “ What  a demnition  long  time  have  you 
kept  me  ringing  at  this  confounded  old  cracked  tea-kettle  of  a bell,  every 
tinkle  of  which  is  enough  to  throw  a strong  man  into  blue  convulsions^  upon 
my  life  and  soul,  oh  demmit.” 

4 “ Metal  of  India"  probably  means  precious  girl,  or  heart  of  gold,  /• 


SCENE  V. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


75 


Fab.  O,  peace  ! Contemplation  makes  a rare  turkey-cock 
of  him  : how  he  jets  under  his  advanced  plumes  1^ 

Sir  And.  ’Slight,®  I could  so  beat  the  rogue  ! 

Sir  To.  Peace,  I say. 

Mai.  To  be  Count  Malvolio  : — 

Sir  To.  Ah,  rogue  ! 

Sir  And.  Pistol  him,  pistol  him. 

Sir  To.  Peace,  peace  ! 

Mai.  —there  is  example  for’t;  the  lady  of  the  strachy^ 
married  the  yeoman  of  the  wardrobe.  aJ/P''!  r 

Sir  And.  Fie  on  him,  Jezebel ! — cJy- 

Fab.  O,  peace  ! now  he’s  deeply  in  : look  how  imagina- 
tion blows  him.® 

Mai.  Having  been  three  months  married  to  her,  sitting  in 
my  state, — 

Sir  To.  O,  for  a stone-bow,®  to  hit  him  in  the  eye  ! 

i To  jet  is  to  strut  with  pride.  So  in  Cymbeline,  iii.  3:  “The  gates  of 
monarchs  are  arch'd  so  higli,  that  giants  may /W  through,  and  kegp  their 
impious  turbans  on,  without  good  morrow  to  the  Sun.” — Advanced  plumes 
is  raised  or  uplifted  feathers. 

6 'Slight!  is  a disguised  oath,  for  God's  light! 

7 Payne  Knight  conjectured  that  strachy  was  a corruption  of  the  Italian 
stratico,  a word  derived  from  the  low  Latin  strategus,  or  straticus,  and  often 
used  for  the  governor  of  a city  or  province.  But  Mr.  A.  E.  Brae  offers,  I think, 
a more  probable  explanation  : “ Florio,  in  his  Italian  Dictionary,  has  a woid 
very  like  in  sound  to  this  strachy  : ‘ Stratisco,  the  train  or  long  garment  of 
state  worn  by  a princess.’  And  when  it  is  considered  that  there  is  a sort  of 
appositeness  in  making  the  lady  who  wears  the  train  condescend  to  marry 
the  man  who  had  charge  of  it,  it  offers,  I think,  a very  probable  interpreta- 
tion of  Malvolio’s  meaning.”  He  also  quotes  from  Camden’s  Remains  an 
epitaph  showing  that  yeoman  of  the  wardrobe  ” was  a well  known  office 
in  the  households  of  high-born  ladies ; “ Her  lyes  Richard  Hobbs,  Yeoman 
of  the  roabes  to  our  late  sovereigne  Queene  Mary.” 

8 Puffs  him  up.  So  in  Bacon’s  Advancement  of  Learning : ” Knowledge 
bloweth  up,  but  charity  buildeth  up.” 

^ A bow  for  hurling  stones. 


Twelfth  night  ; or, 


ACT  II. 


Ma/.  — calling  my  officers  about  me,  in  my  branch’d 
velvet  gown ; having  come  from  a day-bed,  where  I have  left 
Olivia  sleeping ; — 

Si’r  To.  Fire  and  brimstone  ! 

Fab.  O,  peace,  peace  ! 

Mai.  — and  then  to  have  the  humour  of  state  ; and,  after 
a demure  travel  of  regard, — telling  them  I know  my 
place,  as  I would  they  should  do  theirs,  — to  ask  for  my 
kinsman  Toby.  — 

Sir  To.  Bolts  and  shackles  ! 

Fab.  O,  peace,  peace,  peace  ! now  now. 

Mai.  — Seven  of  my  people,  with  an  obedient  start,  make 
out  for  him  : I frown  the  while  ; and  perchance  wind  up  my 
X watch,  or  play  with  some  rich  jewel.  Toby  approaches ; 
curtsies  there  to  me  : — 

Sir  To.  Shall  this  fellow  live  ? 

Fab.  Though  our  silence  be  drawn  from  us  by  th’  ears, 
yet  peace. 

Mai.  — I e:?^tend  my  hand  to  him  thus,  quenching  my 
familiar  smile  with  an  austere  regard  of  control,!^  — 

Sir  To.  And  does  not  Toby  take  you  a blow  o’  the  lips^ 
then  ? 

Mai.  — saying.  Cousin  Toby,  my  fortunes  having  cast  me 
on  your  niece,  give  me  this  prerogative  of  speech  ; — 

Sir  To.  What,  what? 

Mai.  — you  must  amend  your  drunkenness.  — 

Sir  To.  Out,  scab  ! 


This  seems  to  be  a Malvolian  phrase  for  a stern  and  awful  gaze  oi' 
stare,  with  an  air  of  dignified  contempt. 

Curtsy  was  used,  to  denote  acts  of  civility  and  reverence  by  either  sex. 
An  austere  regard  of  control  ” probably  means  such  a look  of  stern- 
ness as  would  awe  down  or  repress  any  approaches  of  familiarity. 


SCENE  V. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


77 


Fab.  Nay,  patience,  or  we  break  the  sinews  oi  our  plot. 
Mai.  — Besides,  you  waste  the  treasure  of  your  time  with 
a foolish  knight,  — 

Sir  And.  That’s  me,  I warrant  you. 

Mai.  — one  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  And.  I knew  ’twas  I;  for  many  do  call  me  fool. 

Mai.  What  employment  have  we  here  ? 

{Taking  up  the  letter. 

('  ’^Fab.  Now  is  the  woo^ock  near  the  gin.i^ 

Sir  To.  O,  peace  ! and  the  spirit  of  humours  intimate 
reading  aloud  to  him  ! 

Mai.  By  my  life,  this  is  my  lady’s  hand : these  be  her 
very  C’s,  her  LPs,  and  her  Ts;  and  thus  makes  she  her  great 
Ts.  It  is,  in  contempt  of  question,  her  hand. 

Sir  And.  Her  Cs,  her  ITs,  and  her  Ts:  why  that? 

Mai.  [Reads.]  To  the  unknown  beloved,  this,  and  my  good 
wishes : her  very  phrases  ! — By  your  leave,  wax.  Soft ! and 
the  impressure  her  Lucrece,  with  which  she  uses  to  seaH  tis, 
my  lady.  To  whom  should  this 
Fab.  This  wins  him,  liver  and 

Mai.  [Reads.]  /ove  knows  I love  : but  who  ? 

Lips,  do  not  move;  no  man  must  know. 

Mo  man  must  know.  What  follows  ? the  numbers  alter  d ! 
No  man  must  know.  If  this  should  be  thee,  Malvolio  ! 


13  The  woodcock  was  thought  to  be  the  stupidest  of  birds ; and  gin  was 
but  another  word  for  trap  ox  snare. 

14  “ May  the  self-love-sick  humour  that  possesses  him  prompt  him  to  read 
the  letter  aloud!  ” Sir  Toby  wants  to  hear  the  contents,  and  also  to  see 
Malvolio  smack  his  lips  over  the  “ dish  of  poison.” 

15  Referring,  no  doubt,  to  the  different  versification  of  what  follows.  The 
use  of  numbers  for  verse  is  quite  common ; as  in  Milton’s  ” harmonious 
numbers^  and  Pope’s  ‘‘  I lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came. 


78 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  n. 


Sir  To,  Marry,  hang  thee,  brock  ! 

Mai.  [Reads.]  I May  command  where  I adore ; 

But  silence,  like  a Lucrece'  knife, 

With  bloodless  stroke  my  heart  doth  gore: 

M,  O,  A,  I,  doth  sway  my  life. 

Fab,  A fustian  riddle  ! 

Sir  To,  Excellent  wench,  say  I. 

Mai.  M,  O,  A,  I,  doth  sway  my  life,  — Y\d.y,  but  first,  let 
me  see,  let  me  see,  let  me  see. 

Fab,  What  dish  o’  poison  has  she  dress’d  him  ! 

Sir  To.  And  with  what  wing  the  staniel  checks  at  it ! 

Mai.  I may  command  where  I adore.  Why,  she  may 
command  me  : I serve  her ; she  is  my  lady.  Why,  this  is 
evident  to  any  formal  capacity  there  is  no  obstruction  in 
and  the  end,  what  should  that  alphabetical  position 
portend?  if  I could  make  that  resemble  something  in  me, — 
Softly  !—J/,  O,  A,  I, — 

Sir  To.  O,  ay,  make  up  that : — he  is  now  at  a cold  scent.^o 

Fab.  Sowter  will  cry  upon’t,  for  all  this,  though  it  be  as 
rank  as  a fox.^i 

16  Brock  is  badger^  and  was  used  as  a term  of  contempt. 

17  An  exclamative  speech.  We  should  say  “ What  a dish,”  &c.  See 
Julius  C(ssar,  page  65,  note  14. 

18  The  staniel  is  a species  of  hawk,  which  inhabits  old  buildings  and 
rocks.  To  check,  says  Latham  in  his  Book  of  Falconry,  is,  ” when  crows, 
rooks,  pies,  or  other  birds  coming  in  view  of  the  hawk,  she  forsaketh  her 
natural  flight  to  fly  at  them.” 

1^  To  any  one  in  his  senses,  or  whose  capacity  is  not  out  of  form. 

26  A cold  scent  is  a trail  that  has  grown  so  faint  as  not  to  be  traceable  by 
the  smell,  or  hardly  so. 

21  Sowter  is  used  here  as  the  name  of  a hound.  — The  Poet  sometimes 
has  though  in  a causal,  not  a concessive,  sense ; that  is,  as  equivalent  to 
because,  for , since,  or  hiasmuch  as..  In  such  cases,  his  meaning  naturally 
appears  to  us  just  the  opposite  of  what  it  really  is.  So,  here,  though  it  be 


SCENE  V. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


79 


Mai  iI/-Malvolio  ; J/,-why,  that  begins  my  name. 
m.  M not  I sn,  ho  would  work  it  ou.k  the  cu.  . ex- 

,hu"u„d.r  probation  .d  should  Mow.  bn.  0 does. 
Fab.  And  0 shall  end,  I hope. 

^ir  To.  Ay,  or  I’ll  cudgel  him,  and  make  him  cry  0 . 

MnJ  And  then  / comes  behind. 

f1  Ay.  tut  you  had  any  eye  behind  you.  yon  ought  see 
rimtrartion  at  vour  heels  than  fortunes  before  you. 

^^Mal.  M,  O,  A,  I;  this  simulations'*  is  not  as  the  former  : 

and  yet,  to’  crush  this  a little,  it  would  ^ 

one  of  these  letters  are  in  my  name.  Soft!  here  toliow 

prose. 

TReads  1 If  this  fall  into  thy  hand,  revolve.  In  my  stars 
7am  above  thee  • but  be  not  afraid  of  greatness : some  are 

born  great,  some  achieve  greatness,  and 

* > I Thv  Fates  otien  their  hands  ; let  thy  blood 

re  r»re  r.yser/.  ^rr^w 

ftl  re  fc.  e«r  r/,y  ^««e 

opposite  with  a kinsman,  surly  with  servants , let  y g 

r •/  Vc  The  lode  of  the  passage  requires  it  to  be 

stands'for  since  or  because  iti  . snuffs  all  round  till  he 

so  understood;  upon't/'  and  starts  off 

recovers  it  and  then  “P  ..  technical  phrase  for  it ; and 

afresh  in  the  pursuit.  Givi  g _ ^ports- 

Mr.  Joseph  Crosby  writes  me  that  it  opens  in  concert.” 

men  and  also  to  the  rest  of  * . breach  in  the  continuity  of 


8o 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  II. 


trST'T  * '■-■f 

y ■ she  thus  advises  thee  that  sighs  for  thee  / 

a^sM  tLr;T 

time  s fingers.  Farewell.  She  thatwnuU  njf 

thee,  would  alter  services  with 

^ The  Fortunate- Unhappy. 

Daylight  and  champain  discover  not  morer^e  this  is  open 
I wdl  be  proud,  I will  read  politic  authors,  I will  baffle  c 
viseS  t J acquaintance,  I will  be  point-de- 

cu  a-a  ’ • commend  my  yellow  stockings  of  late 

shed, dpra.se  my  leg  being  cross-garter’d ; and  in  this^e 

and  my  stars  be  praised  ! — Here  is  vet n!.  f • * ^ ^ 

n?epd«1  7’^  "cre  IS  yet  a postscript. 

L J<eads.]  Thou  canst  not  choose  but  know  who  I am  It 

thou  entertain’ st  my  love  let  ft  ^ 

ny  love,  let  it  appear  in  thy  smiling:  thy 

use.  were  .hen  in 

them  coxcombical.  probably  arose  from  thinking 

affording  a free  prosnect 

comingt:  P-ise  in  afl  .Kes  and  be- 

A., 

or  stout-tempered,  ^ ^ overbear* 


SCENE  V. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


smiles  become  thee  well;  therefore  in  my  presence  still  smile, 
dear  my  sweet,  I pr'ythee. 

God,  I thank  Thee.  — I will  smile;  I will  do  every  thing 


\_Exit, 


that  thou  wilt  have  me. 


Fab,  I will  not  give  my  part  of  this  sport  for  a pension  of 
thousands  to  be  paid  from  the  Sophy .^9 

Sir  To.  I could  marry  this  wench  for  this  device,  — 

Sir  And.  So  could  I too. 

To.  —and  ask  no  other  dowry  with  her  but  such  an- 
other jest. 

Sir  And.  Nor  I neither. 

Fab.  Here  comes  my  noble  gull-catcher. 


Re-enter  Maria. 


Sir  To.  Wilt  thou  set  thy  foot  o’  my  neck? 

Sir  And.  Or  o’  mine  either? 

Sir  To.  Shall  I play  my  freedom  at  tray-trip, and  become 
thy  bond-slave  ? 

Sir  And.  I’faith,  or  I either? 

Sir  To.  Why,  thou  hast  put  him  in  such  a dream,  that, 
when  the  image  of  it  leaves  him,  he  must  run  mad. 

M^.  Nay,  but  say  true  ; does  it  work  upon  him  ? 

Sir  To.  Like  aqua-vitae  with  a midwife. 

Mar.  If  you  will,  then,  see  the  fruits  of  the  sport,  mark 

29  Sophy  was  the  Persian  title  of  majesty.  At  the  time  this  play  was 
written,  Sir  Robert  Shirley  had  lately  returned  as  ambassador  from  the 
Sophy.  Sir  Robert  boasted  of  the  great  rewards  he  had  received,  and  cut  a 
big  dash  in  London. 

80  Tray-trip  was  probably  a game  of  dice ; though  some  hold  it  to  have 
been  the  game  of  draughts.  So  in  an  old  satire  called  Machiavel  s Dog : 
“ But,  leaving  cards,  let’s  go  to  dice  awhile;  to  passage,  hazard, 

or  mum-chance.”  — Play  my  freedom  means  play  for  my  freedom;  that  is, 
stake  it. 


o2 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  III. 


his  first  approach  before  my  lady : he  will  come  to  her  in 
yellow  stockings,  and  ’tis  a colour  she  abhors;  and  cross- 
garter’d,  a fashion  she  detests  ; and  he  will  smile  upon  her, 
which  will  now  be  so  unsuitable  to  her  disposition,  being 
addicted  to  a melancholy  as  she  is,  that  it  cannot  but  turn 
him  into  a notable  contempt.  If  you  will  see  it,  follow  me. 

Sir  To.  To  the  gates  of  Tartar,3i  thou  most  excellent  devil 
of  wit  ! 

Sir  And.  I’ll  make  one  too.  {^Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I. — Olivia’s  Garden. 

Enter  Viola,  and  the  Clown  with  a tabor. 

Vto.  Save  thee,  friend,  and  thy  music  1 dost  thou  live  by 
thy  tabor  ?i 

Clo.  No,  sir,  I live  by  the  church. 

Vto.  Art  thou  a churchman?^ 

Clo.  No  such  matter,  sir ; I do  live  by  the  church ; for  I 
do  live  at  my  house,  and  my  house  doth  stand  by  the  church. 

Vto.  So  thou  mayst  say,  the  king  lives  by  a beggar,  if  a 
beggar  dwell  near  him ; or,  the  church  stands  by  thy  tabor, 
if  thy  tabor  stand  by  thy  church. 

Tartar  is  the  old  Tartarus  or  Hades.,  Note  the  sympathy  of  Tartar 
and  devil. 

1 It  seems  that  the  “ allowed  Fool  ” had  a prescriptive  right  to  the  tabor 
as  his  musical  instrument.  'I'arleton,  the  famous  stage  jester,  is  represented 
as  armed  with  one,  in  a cut  prefixed  to  his  Je.sts,  i6ii. 

2 Churchman  was  in  common  use  for  clergyman. 


SCENE  I. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


83 


Clo,  You  have  said,^  sir.  To  see  this  age  ! A sentence 
is  but  a cheveril  glove  to  a good  wit : ^ how  quickly  the  wrong 
side  may  be  turn’d  outward  ! 

Vio.  Nay,  that’s  certain  ; they  that  dally  nicely  with  words 
may  quickly  make  them  wanton. 

Clo,  I would,  therefore,  my  sister  had  had  no  name,  sir. 

Vio,  Why,  man? 

Clo,  Why,  sir,  her  name’s  a word ; and  to  dally  with  that 
word  might  make  my  sister  wanton.  But,  indeed,  words  are 
very  rascals,  since  bonds  disgraced  them.^ 

Vio.  Thy  reason,  man  ? 

Clo,  Troth,  sir,  I can  yield  you  none  without  words  ; and 
words  are  grown  so  false,  I am  loth  to  prove  reason  with 
them. 

Vio.  I warrant  thou  art  a merry  fellow,  and  carest  for 
nothing. 

Clo.  Not  so,  sir;  I do  care  for  something;  but  in  my 
conscience,  sir,  I do  not  care  for  you  : if  that  be  to  care  for 
nothing,  sir,  I would  it  would  make  you  invisible. 

Vio.  Art  not  thou  the  Lady  Olivia’s  Fool? 

Clo.  No,  indeed,  sir;  the  Lady  Olivia  has  no  folly:  she 


s This  form  of  assent  or  affirmation,  now  obsolete,  occurs  in  the  Bible ; 
as  in  our  Lord’s  answer  to  Pilate,  St.  Mark,  xv.  2 : “ Thou  sayest  it.” 

4 A cheveril  glove  is  a kid  glove.  The  term  was  used  much  as  India 
rubber  is  now.  So  in  one  of  Ray’s  proverbs : ” He  hath  a conscience  like  a 
cheveril' s skin.” 

6 This  probably  alludes  to  an  order  of  the  Privy  Council,  in  June,  1600, 
laying  very  severe  restrictions  on  the  Poet’s  art.  The  order,  besides  that  it 
allowed  only  two  houses  to  be  used  for  stage-plays  in  the  city  and  suburbs, 
interdicted  those  two  from  playing  at  all  during  Lent,  or  in  any  time  of  great 
^iekness,  and  also  limited  them  to  twice  a week  at  all  other  times.  If  rigidly 
enforced  it  would  have  amounted  almost  to  a total  suppression  of  play- 
houses. As  the  penalty  was  imprisonment,  it  might  well  be  said  that  words 
were  disgraced  by  bonds. 


84 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  ;ii. 


will  keep  no  fool,  sir,  till  she  be  married  ; and  fools  are  as  like 
husbands  as  pilchards  are  to  herrings,®  — the  husband’s  the  big- 
ger : I am,  indeed,  not  her  fool,  but  her  corrupter  of  words. 

Vio,  I saw  thee  late  at  the  Count  Orsino’s.  \ y ^ ^ 

Clo.  Foolery,  sir,  does  walk  about  the  orb ; like  the  Sun, 
it  shines  everywhere.  I would  be  sorry,  sir,  but*^  the  fool 
should  be  as  oft  with  your  master  as  with  my  mistress  : I 
think  I saw  your  wisdom  there. 

Vio.  Nay,  an  thou  pass®  upon  me.  I’ll  no  more  with  thee. 
Hold,  there’s  expenses  for  thee.  [ Gives  a piece  of  money, 

Clo,  Now  Jove,  in  his  next  commodity  of  hair,  send  thee 
a beard  ! 

Vio,  By  my  troth.  I’ll  tell  thee,  I am  almost  sick  for 
one ; though  I would  not  have  it  grow  on  my  chin.  Is  thy 
lady  within  ? 

Clo,  Would  not  a pair  of  these  breed,^  sir? 

Vio,  Yes,  being  kept  together,  and  put  to  use. 

Clo,  I would  play  Lord  Pandarus  of  Phrygia,  sir,  to  bring 
a Cressida  to  this  Troilus.  , 

Vio,  I understand  you,  sir  : ’tis  well  begged. 

\_Gives  another  piece  of  money, 

Clo,  The  matter,  I hope,  is  not  great,  sir,  begging  but  a 
beggar  : Cressida  was  a beggar. My  lady  is  within,  sir.  I 

6 Pilchards  are  said  to  differ  from  herrings  only  in  that  they  can  be  fried 
in  their  own  fat,  whereas  herrings  have  not  fat  enough  for  that  purpose. 

7 But  is  here  equivalent  to  if  not.  See  The  Merchant^  ii.  5,  note  19. 

8 Pass  for  make  a pass,  thrust,  or  sally,  of  wit, 

9 The  Fool  is  quirkishly  asking  for  a 7nate  to  the  piece  of  money  Viola 
has  given  him. 

This  famous  jilt-heroine  is  thus  addressed  in  Henryson's  Testament  of 
Cresseid : “Great  penurye  shalt  thou  suffer,  and  as  a beggar  dye,”  And 
again : 


Thou  shalt  go  begging  from  hous  to  hoiis, 
With  cuppe  and  clapper  like  a Lazarous. 


SCENE  I. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


85 


will  construe  to  them  whence  you  come  ; who  you  are,  and 
what  youTwould,  are  out  of  my  welkin,  — I might  say  ele- 


\_Exit. 


ment,i‘  but  the  word  is  over- worn. 


Vio.  This  fellow’s  wise  enoughjojlay  the_Fool ; 


And  to  do  that  well  craves  a kind  of  wit : 

He  must  observe  their  mood  on  whom  he  jests. 

The  quality  of  persons,  and  the  time  ; . 

Not,  like  the  haggard,  check  at  every  feather 
That  comes  before  his  eye.i^  This  is  a practice 
As  full  of  labour  as  a wise  man’s  art : 

For  folly,  that  he  wisely  shows,  is  fit ; 

But  wise  men’s  folly,  shown,  quite  taints  their 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek. 

Sir  To.  Save  you,  gentleman  ! 

Vio.  And  you,  sir. 

, Sir  And.  Dieu  vous  garde,  monsieur.  , 


^■Vio.  Etvousaussi;  votre  serviteur. 


Sir  And.  I hope,  sir,  you  are  ; and  I am  yours. 

Sir  To.  Will  you  encounter  the  house  ? my  niece  is  desir- 
ous you  should  enter,  if  your  trade  be  to  her. 

Vio.  I am  bound  to  your  niece,  sir;  I mean,  she  is  the 
list  ^^  of  my  voyage. 

11  Element  VI3.S  constantly  in  the  mouths  of  those  who  affected  fine  talk, 
ing  in  the  Poet's  time.  The  intellectual  exquisites  thus  run  it  into  cant. 
Perhaps  the  word  was  as  much  overworked  as  idea  and  intuition  are  m our 

12  A haggard  is  a wild  or  untrained  hawk,  which  flies,  checks,  at  all  birds, 
or  birds  of  every  feather,  indiscriminately.  See  Much  Ado.  page  67,  note  2. 

18  To  taint,  as  here  used,  is  to  impeach,  attaint,  or  bring  into  an  attainder. 
Wit.  also,  was  used  in  the  sense  of  wisdom,  being  in  fact  from  the  same 

original.  . 

14  List  was  often  used  for  limit  or  boundary ; as,  in  the  well-known  lan- 
guage of  the  tilting-ground,  for  barrier. 


86 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  ITT. 


Sir  To,  Tasters  your  legs,  sir ; put  them  to  motion. 

Vio,  My  legs  do  better  understand  me,  sir,  than  I under- 
stand what  you  mean  by  bidding  me  taste  my  legs. 

Sir  To,  I mean,  to  go,  sir,  to  enter. 

Vio,  I will  answer  you  with  gait  and  entrance : but  we 
are  prevented;^®  — 

Enter  Olivia  and  Maria. 

Most  excellent-accomplishM  lady,  the  heavens  rain  odours 
on  you  ! 

^ Sir  And,  {^AsideS\  That  youth’s  a rare  courtier : Rain 
odours  : well. 

Vio,  My  matter  hath  no  voice,  lady,  but  to  your  own  most 
pregnant  and  vouchsafed  ear. 

Sir  And.  [Aside.]  Odours,  pregnant,  and  vouchsafed : 
I’ll  get  ’em  all  three  ready. 

Oli.  Let  the  garden-door  be  shut,  and  leave  me  to  my 
hearing.  \_Exeunt  Sir  Toby,  Sir  Andrew,  and  Maria.]  — 
Give  me  your  hand,  sir. 

Vio,  My  duty,  madam,  and  most  humble  service. 

Oli,  What  is  your  name  ? 

Vio,  Cesario  is  your  servant’s  name,  fair  princess. 

Oli,  My  servant,  sir  ! ’Twas  never  merry  world 
Since  lowly  feigning  was  call’d  compliment : 

You’re  servant  to  the  Count  Orsino,  youth. 

V 10,  And  he  is  yours,  and  his  must  needs  be  yours : 

Your  servant’s  servant  is  your  servant,  madam. 

Oli,  For  him,  I think  not  on  him  : for  his  thoughts, 

Taste  was  sometimes  used  in  the  sense  of  try.  So  in  Chapman’s 
Odyssey : “ He  now  began  to  taste  the  bow. 

Prevented  in  the  classical  sense  of  anticipated  or  forestalled.  Often  so. 
See  The  Merchant,  page  83,  note  18. 

1"^  Pregnant  here  means  apprehensive,  quick,  or  intelligent. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


87 


)o  rj  they  were  blanks,  rather  than  fill’d  with  me  ! 

’ ' ’ I come  to  whet  your  gentle  thoughts 


OH.  O,  by  your  leave,  I pray  you  : 

I bade  you  never  speak  again  of  him ; 

But,  would  you  undertake  another  suit, 

I had  rather  hear  you  to  solicit  that 


Than  music  from  the  spheres. 
Via, 


Dear  lady,  — 


OH,  Give  me  leave,  I beseech  you.  I did  send. 

After  the  last  enchantment  you  did  here, 

A ring  in  chase  of  you  : so  did  I abuse 
Myself,  my  servant,  and,  I fear  me,  you : 

Under  your  hard  construction  must  I sit. 

To  force  that  on  you,  in  a shameful  cunning. 

Which  you  knew  none  of  ypurs  : what  might  you  think? 
Have  you  not  set  mine  honour  at  the  stake. 

And  baited  it  with  all  th’  unmuzzled  thoughts 
That  tyrannous  heart  can  think?  To  one  of  your 
Receiving^®  enough  is  shown  : 

A cyprus,2i  not  a bosom,  hides  my  heart. 

So,  let  me  hear  you  speak. 

Vio,  I pity  you. 

OH,  That’s  a deg^e^to  love. 

Vio,  No,  not  a grise  for  ’tis  a vulgar  proof. 

To  force  with  the  sense  of  for  forcing.  The  Poet  abounds  in  such 
instances  of  the  infinitive  used  like  the  gerund  in  Latin. 

19  The  figure  is  of  a bear  or  other  animal  tied  to  a stake,  to  be  baited  or 
worriedhy  dogs,  with  free  ox 'unmuzzled  mouths. 

20  One  so  quick  to  understand  or  apprehend. 

21  Cyprus  was  the  name  of  a light  transparent  fabric,  like  lawn. 

22  Grise  is  an  old  word  for  step^  and  so  means  the  same  as  Olivia  s de' 
gree^  which  is  used  in  the  Latin  sense. 


88 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR^ 


That  very  oft  we  pity  enemies.  ^ 

OH.  Why,  then  methinks  ’tis  time  to  smile  again. 

0 world,  how  apt  the  poor  are  to  be  proud  ! 

If  one  should  be  a prey,  how  much  the  better 

To  fall  before  the  lion  than  the  wolf ! \_Clock  i;trikes. 

The  clock  upbraids  me  with  the  waste  of  time.  — 

Be  not  afraid,  good  youth,  I will  not  have  you  : 

And  yet,  when  wit  and  youth  is  come  to  harvest, 

Your  wife  is  like  to  reap  a proper  man  : 

There  lies  your  way,  due  west. 

^ V w.  Then  westward-ho  ! 

Grace  and  good  disposition  ’tend  your  ladyship  ! 

You’ll  nothing,  madam,  to  my  lord  by  me  ? 

OH,  Stay : 

1 pr’ythee,  tell  me  what  thou  think’st  of  me. 

Vio.  That  you  do  think  you  are  not  what  you  are. 

OH.  If  I think  so,  I think  the  same  of  you. 

Vio.  Then  think  you  right : I am  not  what  I am..^ 

OH.  I would  you  were  as  I would  have  you  be  ! 

Vio.  Would  it  be  better,  madam,  than  I am,  C 

I wish  it  might ; for  now  I am  your  fool.  \ 

OH.  \_Aside^  O,  what  a deal  of  scorn  looks  iWutifi^?  / 
In  the  contempt  and  anger  of  his  lip  ! — ^ ^ 

A murderous  guilt  shows  not  itself  more  soon 
Than  love  that  would  seem  hid  : love’s  night  is  noon^|^-^>^ 

^sario7 


By  maidhood,  honour,  truth,  and  every  thing, 

I love  thee  so,  that,  maugre  all  thy  pride,  t 
Nor  wit  nor  reason  can  my  passion  hide. 


n^ViX)^  (r 


An  exclamation  used  by  watermen  on  the  Thames.  Westward  ho^ 
Northward  ho,  and  Eastward  ho,  were  also  used  as  titles  of  plays. 

2^*  Maugre  is  in  spite  of,  from  the  French  mature. 


n. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL 


89 


.ot  extort  thy  reasons  from  this  clause 
For,  that  I woo,  thou  therefore. hast  no  cause; 

But,  rather,  reason  thus  with  reason  fetter,  — 

Love  sought  is  good,  but  given  unsought  is  better. 

Vio.  By  innocence  I swear,  and  by  my  youth, 

I have  one  heart,  one  bosom,  and  one  truth. 

And  that  no  woman  has  ; nor  never  none  26 
Shall  mistress  be  of  it,  save  I alone. 

And  so  adieu,  good  madam  ; never  more 
Will  I my  master’s  tears  to  you  deplore. 

on.  Yet  come  again ; for  thou  perhaps  mayst  move 
That  heart,  which  now  abhors,  to  like  his  love.  {^Exeunt 


Scene  II,  — A Room  in  Olivia’s  House. 


Enter  Sir  Toby 


Belch^  Sir  Andrew 
Fabian. 


Aguecheek, 


Sir  And.  No,  faith,  I’ll  not  stay  a jot  longer. 

Sir  To.  Thy  reason,  dear  venom  : give  thy  reason. 

Fab.  You  must  needs  yield  your  reason.  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  And.  Marry,  I saw  your  niece  do  more  favours  to  the 
Count’s  serving- man  than  ever  she  bestow  d upon  me  \ 1 
saw’t  i’  the  orchard. 

Sir  To.  Did  she  see  thee  the  while,  old  boy  ? tell  me 


that. 


R M.  ? 

25  This  is  rather  darkly  expressed ; but  the  meaning  appears  to  be,  “ Do 
not,  from  what  I have  just  said,  force  or  gather  reasons  for  rejecting  niy 

' offer.”  Perhaps  Olivia  thinks  her  superiority  of  rank  may  excuse  her  in 
thus  making  the  first  open  advances. 

26  We  should  say,  “ nor  ever  anyt  The  doubling  of  negatives  is  very 
frequent  in  Shakespeare,  as  in  all  the  writers  of  his  time ; but  such  a trebling 
is  rare,  at  least  comparatively  so. 


90 


TWKLFTII  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  Til, 


Sir  And.  As  plain  as  I see  you  now. 

Fab.  This  was  a great  argument  of  love  in  her  toward 
you. 

Sir  And.  'Slight,  will  you  make  an  ass  o'  me  ? 

Fab.  I will  prove  it  legitimate,  sir,  upon  the  oaths  of 
judgment  and  reason. 

Sir  To.  And  they  have  been  grand-jurymen  since  before 
Noah  was  a sailor. 

Fab.  She  did  show  favour  to  the  youth  in  your  sight  only 
to  exasperate  you,  to  awake  your  dormouse  valour,  to  put 
fire  in  your  heart,  and  brimstone  in  your  liver.  You  should 
then  have  accosted  her ; and  with  some  excellent  jests,  fire- 
new  from  the  mint,  you  should  have  bang’d  the  youth  into 
dumbness.  This  was  look’d  for  at  your  hand,  and  this  was 
balk’d  : the  double  gilt  of  this  opportunity  you  let  time  wash 
off,  and  you  are  now  sail’d  into  the  north  of  my  lady’s  opin- 
ion ; where  you  will  hang  like  an  icicle  on  a Dutchman’s 
beard,  unless  you  do  redeem  it  by  some  laudable  attempt 
either  of  valour  or  policy. 

Sir  And.  An’t  be  any  way,  it  must  be  with  valour ; for  Q, 
policy  I hate  : I had  as  lief  be  a as  a politician. 

Sir  To.  Why,  then  build  me^  thy  fortunes  upon  the  basis 
of  valour.  Challenge  me  the  Count’s  youth  to  fight  with  him ; 

1 The  Brownists  were  one  of  the  radical  sects  that  arose  during  the  reign  < 

of  Elizabeth ; so  called  from  Robert  Brown,  their  founder.  Like  others  of 

their  kind,  their  leading  purpose  was  to  prevent  the  abuse  of  certain  things, 
such  as  laws,  by  uprooting  the  use  of  them.  Malvolio  appears  to  have  been 
intended  partly  as  a satire  on  the  Puritans  in  general ; they  being  especially  ' 

strenuous  at  the  time  this  play  was  written  to  have  restrictions  set  upon  * , 

playing.  But  there  had  been  a deep-seated  grudge  between  the  Puritans 
and  the  Dramatists  ever  since  Nash  put  out  the  eyes  of  Martin  Marprelate  ' 

with  salt.  ■ 

2 In  colloquial  langiingo,  me  was  often  thus  used  redundantly,  though  .J*  I 

with  a slight  dash  of  humour.  i | 


II, 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


91 


hu’  .im  in  eleven  places  ; my  niece  shall  take  note  of  it ; and 
assure  thyself,  there  is  no  love-broker^  in  the  world  can  more 
prevail  in  man’s  commendation  with  woman  than  report  of 
valour.  ^ 

Fab.  There  is  no  way  but  this,  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  And.  Will  either  of  you  bear  me  a challenge  to  him  ? 

Sir  To.  Go,  write  it  in  a martial  hand;  be  curst ^ and 
brief ; it  is  no  matter  how  witty,  so  it  be  eloquent  and  full 
of  invention  : taunt  him  with  the  license  of  ink : if  thou 
thou'sT  him  some  thrice,  it  shall  not  be  amiss  ; and  as  many 
lies  as  will  lie  in  thy  sheet  of  paper,  although  the  sheet  were 
big  enough  for  the  bed  of  Ware  ^ in  England,  set  ’em  down  : 
go,  about  it.  Let  there  be  gall  enough  in  thy  ink ; though 
thou  write  with  a goose-pen,  no  matter  : about  it. 

Sir  And.  Where  shall  I find  you? 

Sir  To.  We’ll  call  thee  at  thy  cubiculo  A go. 

\_Exit  Sir  Andrew. 


'^3  A love-broker  is  one  who  mediates  or  breaks  the  ice  between  two  bash- 
ful lovers.  Pandarus  sustains  that  office  in  Troilus  and  Cressida  ; hence 
our  word  pander. 

4 Curst  is  cross,  snappish.  We  should  say,  “ Be  short;'  or  “ Be  tarC' 

3 This  has  been  generally  thought  an  allusion  to  Coke  s abusive  thouing 
of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  at  his  trial ; but  the  play  was  acted  a year  and  a half 
before  that  trial  took  place.  And  indeed  it  had  been  no  insult  to  thou  Sir 
Walter,  unless  there  were  some  pre-existing  custom  or  sentiment  to  make  it 
so.  What  that  custon^  was,  may  be  seen  by  the  following  passage  from  a 
book  published  in  1661,  by  George  Fox  the  Quaker : “ For  this  thou  and  thee 
was  a sore  cut  to  proud  flesh,  and  them  that  sought  self-honour ; who,  though 
they  would  say  it  to  God  and  Christ,  would  not  endure  to  have  it  said  to 
themselves.  So  that  we  were  often  beaten  and  abused,  and  sometimes  in 
danger  of  our  lives,  for  using  those  words  to  some  proud  men,  who  would 
i^^say.  What,  you  ill-bred  clown,  do  you  thou  me!" 

6 This  curious  piece  of  furniture  was  a few  years  since  still  in  being  at 
one  of  the  inns  in  that  town.  It  was  reported  to  be  twelve  feet  square,  and 
capable  of  holding  twenty-four  persons. 

7 Cubiculo,  from  the  Latin  cubicuhim,  is  a sleeping-room. 


r 


92  TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR,  Av  “ . 

Fab.  This  is  a dear  manikin « to  you,  Sir  Toby. 

Stv  To.  I have  been  dear  to  him,  lad,  — some  two  thou- 
sand strong,  or  so.^ 

Fab.  We  shall  have  a rare  letter  from  him  : but  you’ll  not 
deliver’t  ? 

Sir  To.  Never  trust  me,  then;  and  by  all  means  stir  on 
the  youth  to  an  answer.  I think  oxen  and  wain-ropes  cannot 
hale  them  together.  For  Andrew,  if  he  were  open’d,  an 
you  find  so  much  blood  in  his  liver  10  as  will  clog  the  foot  of 
a fiea.  I’ll  eat  the  rest  pf  the  anatomy. 

Fab.  And  his  opposite,  the  youth,  bears  in  his  visage  no 
great  presage  of  cruelty. 

Sir  To.  Look,  where  the  youngest  wren  of  nine  comes.“ 
Enter  Maria. 

Mar.  If  you  desire  the  spleen,i2  and  will  laugh  yourselves 
into  stitches,  follow  me.  Yond  gull  Malvalio  is  turn’d  hea- 
then, a very  renegado ; for  there  is  no  Christian,  that  means 
to  be  saved  by  believing  rightly,  can  ever  believe  such  impos- 
sible passages  of  grossness.^^  He’s  in  yellow  stockings. 

8 Manikin  is  an  old  diminutive  of  man  ; here  it  means  pet. 

9 Meaning  that  he  has  fooled  or  dandled  so  much  money  out  of  him. 

10  A red  liver,  or  a liver  full  of  blood,  was  the  common  badge  of  courage, 
as  a white  or  bloodless  liver  was  of  cowardice. 

11  Alluding  to  the  small  stature  of  Maria.  Sir  Toby  elsewhere  calls  her 
“ the  little  villain,”  and  Viola  ironically  speaks  of  her  as  ” giant.”  The  ex- 
pression seems  to  have  been  proverbial ; the  wren  generally  laying  nine  or 
ten  eggs,  and  the  last  hatched  being  the  smallest  of  the  brood. 

12  The  spleen  was  held  to  be  the  special  seat  of  unbenevolent  risibility, 
and  so  the  cause  of  teasing  or  pestering  mirth  ; splenetic  laughter.  Here  ii 
seems  to  mean  a fit  or  turn  of  excessive  merriment,  dashed  with  something 
of  a spiteful  humour. 

18  A rather  curious  commentary  on  the  old  notion  of  ” Salvation  by  ortho- 
f doxy,”  or  belief  in  believing.”  The  meaning  is,  that  even  one  who  makes 

I'w 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


9 


HI. 


Sir  To.  And  cross-garter’d  ? 

Mar.  Most  villanously ; like  a pe^nti'*  that  keeps  a school 
i’  the  church.  I have  dogg’d  him,  like  his  murderer.  He 
does  obey  every  point  of  the  letter  that  I dropp’d  to  betray 
him : he  does  smile  his  face  into  more  lines  than  are  in  the  I 
new  map,  with  the  augmentation  of  the  Indies  : you  have  u 
not  seen  such  a thing  as  ’tis ; I can  hardly  forbear  hurling 
things  at  him.  I know  my  lady  will  strike  him : if  she  do,^ 
he’ll  smile,  and  take’t  for  a great  favour. 

Sir  To.  Come,  bring^us,  bripg  us  /wh|pre  he  is.  \JE,xeuni. 


\ 


SCEN±  I] 


— A Street 


Enter  Sebastian  and  Antoi^ 

Seb,  I would  not,  by  my  will,  have  troubled  yo^ 
But,  since  you  make  your  pleasure  of  your  pains,  i 
I will  no  further  chide  you. 

Ant  I could  not  stay  behind  you  : my  desi 
More  sharp  than  filed  steel,  did  spur  me  forth ; 

And  not  all  love  to  see  you,  — though  so  much 
As  might  have  drawn  me  to  a longer  voyage,  — 

But  jealousy  what  might  befall  your  travel, 

Being  skilless  in  these  parts ; which  to  a stranger, 


a merit  of  being  easy  of  belief,  as  thinking  to  be  saved  thereby,  could  not 
believe  a thing  so  grossly  incredible  as  this.  The  Poet  has  impossible  else- 
where in  the  sense  of  incredible.  See  Much  Ado,  page  49,  note  21. 

14  The  Poet  uses  pedant  for  pedagogue.  So  Holofernes  the  schoolmaster 
~~is  called  repeatedly  in  Love's  Labours  Lost;  also  the  tutors  employed  for 

Catharine  and  Bianca  in  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

15  Alluding,  no  doubt,  to  a map  which  appeared  in  the  second  edition  of 
Hakluyt’s  Voyages,  in  1598.  This  map  is  multilineal  in  the  extreme,  and  is 
the  first  in  which  the  Eastern  Islands  are  included. 


4 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


A 

Unguided  and  unfriended,  often  prove 
Rough  and  unhospitable  : my  willing  love, 

The  rather  by  these  arguments  of  fear, 

Set  forth  in  your  pursuit. 

Seb,  My  kind  Antonio, 

I can  no  other  answer  make,  but  thanks. 

And  thanks,  and  ever  thanks  ; too  oft  good  turns 
Are  shuffled  off  with  such  uncurrent  pay  : 

But,  were  my  worth, ^ as  is  my  conscience,  firm. 

You  should  find  better  dealing.  What’s  to  do? 

Shall  we  go  see  the  reliques^  of  this  town? 

Ant.  To-morrow,  sir ; best  first  go  see  your  lodging. 

Seb.  I am  not  weary,  and  ’tis  long  to  night : 

I pray  you,  let  us  satisfy  our  eyes 

With  the  memorials  and  the  things  of  fame 

That  do  renown  this  city. 

jifit.  Would  you’d  pardon  me ; 

I do  not  without  danger  walk  these  streets  : 

Once,  in  a sea-fight,  ’gainst  the' County’s  galleys 
I did  some  service  ; of  such  note  indeed, 

That,  were  I ta’en  here,  it  would  ^ scarce  be  answer’d, 

Seb.  Belike  you  slew  great  number  of  his  people. 

Ant.  Th’  offence  is  not  of  such  a bloody  nature  ; 

Albeit  the  quality  of  the  time  and  quarrel 
Might  well  have  given  us  bloody  argument.'^ 

1 Worth  here  stands  for  wealth  or  fortune.  Repeatedly  so. 

2 Reliques  for  antiquities^  or,  as  it  is  said  a little  after,  “ the  memorials  and 
the  things  of  fame  ” that  confer  renown  upon  the  city. 

8 Would  for  could ; the  auxiliaries  could,  should,  and  would  being  ofteii_ 
used  indiscriminately.  The  same  with  shall  and  will ; as  in  a subseque 
speech  : “ Haply  your  eyes  shall  light,”  &c. 

4 Argument  readily  passes  over  into  the  sense  of  debate,  and  debaf' 
readily  into  that  of  strife  or  conflict. 


SCEN3  in. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


95 


It  might  have  since  been  answer’d  in  repaying 
What  we  took  from  them  ; which,  for  traffic  s sake, 

Most  of  our  city  did  : only  myself  stood  out ; 

For  which,  if  I be  lapsed  ^ in  this  place, 

I shall  pay  dear. 

Seb.  Do  not,  then,  walk  too  open. 

Ant.  It  doth  not  fit  me.  Hold,  sir,  here’s  my  purse. 

In  the  south  suburbs,  at  the  Elephant,® 

Is  best  to  lodge  : I will  bespeak  our  diet. 

Whiles  you  beguile  the  time  and  feed  your  knowledge 
With  viewing  of  the  town  : there  shall  you  have  me. 

Seb.  Why  I your  purse  ? 

Ant.  Haply  your  eye  shall  light  upon  some  toy 
You  have  desire  to  purchase  ; and  your  store, 

I think,  is  not  for  idle  markets,  sir. 

Seb.  I’ll  be  your  purse-bearer,  and  leave  you  for 
An  hour. 

Ant.  To  th’  Elephant. 

i do  remember.  \_Exeunt. 

s Lapsed  \s.,  properly ,/»//««  / but  here  carries  the  sense  of  making  a Mp 
or  mis-step,  so  as  to  be  recognized  and  caught. 

6 An  inn  so  named ; probably  from  its  having  a picture  of  an  elephant 
for  its  sign ; like  the  boar' s-kead  of  Falstaff’s  famous  tavern  in  Eastcheap. 
In  old  times,  when  but  few  people  could  read,  lettered  signs  would  not  do ; 
and  so  pictured  ones  were  used  instead. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  HI. 


Scene  IV.  — Olivia’s  Garden, 

Enter  Olivia  and  Maria. 

OH,  [^Aside.^  I have  sent  after  him  : says  he,  he’ll  comef 
How  shall  I feast  him  ? what  bestow  of  him  ? 

youth  is  bought  more  oft  than  begg’d  or  borrow’d. 

I speak  too  loud.  — 

Q Where  is  Malvolio  ? — he  is  sad  ^ and  civil, 

3 And  suits  well  for  a servant  with  my  fortunes  : — 

Where  is  Malvolio? 

He’s  coming,  madam  ; but  in  very  strange  manner. 
He  is,  sure,  possess’d,  madam. 

— on.  Why,  what’s  the  matter?  does  he  rave? 

_ Mar,  No,  madam,  he  does  nothing  but  smile  : your  lady- 
ship were  best  to  have  some  guard  about  you,  if  he  come  ; 
for,  sure,  the  man  is  tainted  in’s  wits. 

’i  on.  Go  call  him  hither.  \_Exit  Maria.]  — I’m  as  mad 
as  he, 

^ If  sad  and  merry  madness  equal  be.  — 

Re-enter  Maria,  with  Malvolio. 

- How  now  Malvolio  ! 

Mai,  Sweet  lady,  ho,  ho.  \_Smiles  fantasHcalfy 

OH.  Smilest  thou  ? I sent  for  thee  upon  a sad  occasion. 
Mai.  Sad,  lady ! I could  be  sad  : this  does  make  some 
obstruction  in  the  blood,  this  cross-gartering  ; but  what  of 


7 We  should  say,  “ bestow  on  him.”  This  indifferent  use  of  on  and  of  iJ 
very  frequent. — In  the  line  before,  “says  he,  he’ll  come”  of  course  means 
” if\\Q.  says  he’ll  come.”  This  way  of  making  the  subjunctive  is  common. 

1 Sad  in  its  old  sense  of  serious  or  grave.  See  Much  Ado,  page  30, 
note  17. 


SCENE  IV. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


97 


that?  if  7t  please  the  eye  of  one,  it  is  with  me  as  the  very 
true  sonnet  is,  Please  one,  and  please  all? 

OH,  Why,  how  dost  thou,  man  ? what  is  the  matter  with 
thee  ? 

MaL  Not  black  in  my  mind,  though  yellow  in  my  legs. 
It  did  come  to  his  hands,  and  commands  shall  be  executed : 

I think  we  do  know  the  sweet  Roman  hand. 

OH,  Wilt  thou  go  to  bed,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai,  To  bed  ! ay,  sweet-heart ; and  I’ll  come  to  thee. 

7 OH,  God  comfort  thee  ! Why  dost  thou  smile  so,  and 
^ kiss  thy  hand  so  oft? 

Man,  How  do  you,  Malvolio? 

Mai,  At  your  request ! yes  ; nightingales  answer  daws. 

' Mar,  Why  appear  you  with  this  ridiculous  boldness  before 
my  lady  ? 

Mai.  Be  not  afraid  of  greatness : — ’twas  well  writ. 

^ OH,  What  mean’st  thou  by  that,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  Some  are  born  great, — 

OH,  Ha! 

Mai.  — some  achieve  greatness, — 

OH,  What  sayest  thou  ? ^ 

Mai.  — and  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon  them, 

OH,  Heaven  restore  thee  ! 

Mai.  Remember  who  commended  thy  yellow  stockings, — 
OH,  My  yellow  stockings  1 
MaL  — and  wish'd  to  see  thee  cross-garter' d, 

2 A copy  of  this  “ very  true  sonnet  ” was  discovered  a few  years  ago.  It 
is  adorned  with  a rude  portrait  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  with  her  feathered  fan, 
starched  ruff,  and  ample  farthingale,  and  is  said  to  have  been  composed  by 
her  Majesty’s  right  merry  and  facetious  droll,  Dick  Tarleton ; and  has  the 
heading,  “ A prettie  new  Ballad,  intituled,  The  Crowe  sits  upon  the  wall, 
Please  one  and  please  all.”  The  last  line  forms  the  burden,  and  is  repeated 
in  each  stanza. 


98 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  III. 


Oli.  Cross-garter’d  ! 

Mai.  Go  to^  thou  art  ?nade,  if  thou  desirest  to  he  so  ; — 

Oli.  Am  I made  ? 

Mai.  — if  not^  let  me  see  thee  a servant  still. 

OH.  Why,  this  is  very  midsummer  madness.^ 

Enter  a Servant. 

Ser.  Madam,  the  young  gentleman  of  the  Count  Orsino’s 
is  return’d  : I could  hardly  entreat  him  back  : he  attends 
your  ladyship’s  pleasure. 

Oli.  I’ll  come  to  him.  \_Exit  Servant.] — Good  Maria, 
let  this  fellow  be  look’d  to.  Where’s  my  cousin  Toby?  Let 
some  of  my  people  have  a special  care  of  him  : I would  not 
have  him  miscarry  for  the  half  of  my  dowry. 

\^Exeunt  Olivia  and  Maria. 

Mai.  O,  ho  ! do  you  come  near  me  now?  no  worse  man 
than  Sir  Toby  to  look  to  me  ? This  concurs  directly  with  the 
letter : she  sends  him  on  purpose,  that  I may  appear  stub- 
born to  him ; for  she  incites  me  to  that  in  the  letter.  Cast 
thy  humble  sloughy  says  she  : be  opposite  with  a kinsman, 
surly  with  servants  ; let  thy  tongtie  twang  arguments  of  State  ; 
put  thyself  m to  the  trick  of  singularity : and,  consequently, 
sets  down  the  manner  how ; as,  a sad  face,  a reverent  car- 
riage, a slow  tongue,  in  the  habit  of  some  sir  of  note,  and  so 
forth.  I have  limed  her ; ^ but  it  is  God’s  doing,  and  God 
make  me  thankful  ! And,  when  she  went  away  now.  Let 
this  fellow  be  look'd  to : fellow  ! not  Malvolio,  nor  after  my 


8 “ Tis  midsummer  moon  with  you  ” was  a proverbial  phrase,  meaning 
you  are  mad.  Hot  weather  was  of  old  thought  to  affect  the  brain. 

4 That  is,  caught  her,  as  a bird  is  caught  with  lime.  Lime  was  used  for 
any  trap  or  snare  for  catching  birds.  See  Much  Ado,  page  200,  note  10. 


SCENE  TV. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


99 


degree,  but  fellow.^  Why,  every  thing  udheres  together,  thnt 
no  dram  of  a scruple,  no  scruple  of  a scruple,  no  obstacle, 
no  incredulous®  or  unsafe  circumstance,  What  can  be  said? 
Nothing,  that  can  be,  can  come  between  me  and  the  full 
prospect  of  my  hopes.  Well,  God,  not  I,  is  the  doer  of  this, 
and  He  is  to  be  thanked. 

Re-enter  Maria  with  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Fabian. 

Sir  To.  Which  way  is  he,  in  the  name  of  sanctity?  If  all 
the  devils  of  Hell  be  drawn  in  little,  and  Legion  himself  pos- 
sessed him,  yet  I’ll  speak  to  him.  3 

Fab.  Here  he  is,  here  he  is.  — How  is’t  with  you,  sir?  how 
is’t  with  you,  man  ? 

Mai.  Go  off;  I discard  you : let  me  enjoy  my  private ; 

go  off.  • 

Mar.  Lo,  how  hollow  the  fiend  speaks  within  him  ! did 
not  I tell  you? — Sir  Toby,  my  lady  prays  you  to  have  a care 
of  him. 

Mai.  Ah,  ha  ! does  she  so  ? 

Sir  To.  Go  to,  go  to  ; peace,  peace  ; we  must  deal  gently 
with  him  : let  me  alone.  — How  do  you,  Malvolio  ? how  is  t 
with  you?  What,  man  ! defy’^  the  Devil : consider,  he’s  an 
enemy  to  mankind. 

Mai.  Do  you  know  what  you  say  ? 

Mar.  La  you,  an  you  speak  ill  of  the  Devil,  how  he  takes 
it  at  heart  1 Pray  God,  he  be  not  bewitch’d  ! My  lady 
would  not  lose  him  for  more  than  I’ll  say. 

Mai.  How  now,  mistress  ! 

Mar.  O Lord  ! 


® Malvolio  takes  fellow  in  the  sense  of  companion  or  equal. 

6 Incredulous  for  incredible;  an  instance  of  the  indiscriminate  use  of 


active  and  passive  forms.  See  As  You  Like  It,  page  96,  note  4. 
7 Defy,  again,  for  renounce  or  abjure.  See  page  48,  note  13. 


lOO 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  III. 


Sir  T •).  Pr’ythee,  hold  thy  peace  ; this  is  not  the  way  : do 
you  not  see  you  move  him  ? let  me  alone  with  him. 

Fab.  No  way  but  gentleness  ; gently,  gently  : the  fiend  is 
rough,  and  will  not  be  roughly  used. 

Sir  To.  Why,  how  now,  my  bawcock  ! how  dost  thou, 
chuck?® 

MaL  Sir  ! 

Sir  To,  Ay,  Biddy, ^ come  with  me.  What,  man  ! ’tis 
not  for  gravity  to  play  at  cherry-pit  with  Satan  : hang  him, 
foul  collier  ! 

Mar,  Get  him  to  say  his  prayers ; good  Sir  Toby,  get 
him  to  pray. 

Mai,  My  prayers,  minx  ! 

Mar,  No,  I warrant  you,  he  will  not  hear  of  godliness. 

Mai.  Go,  hang  yourselves  all!  you  are  idle  shallow 
things  : I am  not  of  your  element : you  shall  know  more 
hereafter.  \_Exit, 

Sir  To,  Is’t  possible  ? 

Fab,  If  this  were  play’d  upon  a stage  now,  I could  con- 
demn it  as  an  improbable  fiction. 

Sir  To,  His  very  genius  hath  taken  the  infection  of  the 
device,  man. 

Mar,  Nay,  pursue  him  now,  lest  the  device  take  air,  and 
taint. 


SCENE  ir. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


lOI 


Fah.  Why,  we  shall  make  him  mad  indeed. 

Mar.  The  house  will  be  the  quieter. 

Sir  To.  Come,  we’ll  have  him  in  a dark  room  and 
bound.“  My  niece  is  already  in  the  belief  that  he’s  mad  : 
we  may  carry  it  thus,  for  our  pleasure  and  his  penance,  till 
our  very  pastime,  tired  out  of  breath,  prompt  us  to  have 
mercy  on  him ; at  which  time  we  will  bring  the  device  to 
the  bar,  and  crown  thee  for  a finder  of  madmen.  But  see, 
but  see. 

Fah.  More  matter  for  a May  Jaoriiingd-^-^--' — ^ 

EnUr  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek. 

Sir  And.  Here’s  the  challenge,  read  it : I warrant  there’s 
vinegar  and  pepper  in’t. 

^^Fab.  Is’t  so  saucy? 

Sir  And.  Ay,  is’t,  I warrant  him  : do  but  read. 

Sir  To.  Give  me.  [Reads.]  Youth,  whatsoever  thou  art, 
thou  art  but  a scurvy  fellow. 

Fab.  Good,  and  valiant. 

Sir  To.  [Reads.]  Wonder  not,  nor  admire  not  in  thy 
mind,  why  I do  call  thee  so,  for  I will  show  thee  no  reason 
for't. 

Fab.  A good  note  ; that  keeps  you  from  the  blow  of  the 
■"^w. 

Sir  To.  [Reads.]  Thou  comest  to  the  Lady  Olivia,  and 

11  This  seems  to  have  been  the  common  way  of  treating  madness  in  the 
Poet’s  time.  See  As  You  Like  It,  page  93.  note  49. 

12  It  was  usual  on  the  First  of  May  to  exhibit  metrical  interludes  of  the 
comic  kind,  as  well  as  other  sports,  such  as  the  Morris-Dance.  — In  the  line 
before  “ a finder  of  madmen"  is  probably  meant  in  a legal  sense;  as  when 
a coroner  or  jury  finds,  that  is,  brings  in  or  renders,  a verdict.  See  As  You 
Like  It,  page  no,  note  8. 


102 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  ITT, 


in  my  sight  she  uses  thee  kindly:  but  thou  liest  in  thy  throat; 
that  is  not  the  matter  I challenge  thee  for. 

Fab.  Very  brief,  and  exceeding  good  sense — less. 

Sir  To.  [Reads.]  / will  waylay  thee  going  home;  where 
if  it  be  thy  chance  to  kill  me,  — 

Fab.  Good. 

Sir  To.  [Reads.]  — thou  kilFst  me  like  a rogue  and  a 
villain. 

Fab.  Still  you  keep  o’  the  windy  side  of  the  law  : good. 

Sir  To.  [[Reads.J  Fare  thee  well ; and  God  have  mercy 
upon  one  of  our  souls/  He  may  have  mercy  upon  mine ; 
but  my  hope  is  better,  and  so  look  to  thyself.  Thy  friend,  as 
thou  usest  him,  and  thy  sworn  enemy,  Andrew  Aguecheek. 

If  this  letter  move  him  not,  his  legs  cannot : I’ll  give’t  him. 

Mar.  You  may  have  very  fit  occasion  for’t : he  is  now 
in  some  commerce  with  my  lady,  and  will  by-and-by  depart. 

Sir  To.  Go,  Sir  Andrew ; scpiLit  me  for  him  at  the  corner 
of  the  orchard,  like  a bum-baily : gQ  goon  as  ever  thou 
see’st  him,  draw ; and,  as  thou  drawest,  swear  horrible ; for 
it  comes  to  pass  oft,  that  a terrible  oath,  with  a swaggering 
accent  sharply  twang’d  off,  gives  manhood  more  approba- 
tion than  ever  proof  itself  would  have  earn’d  him.  Away  ! 

Sir  And.  Nay,  let  me  alone  for  swearing.  \_Fxit. 

Sir  To.  Now  will  not  I deliver  his  letter : for  the  beha- 
viour of  the  young  gentleman  gives  him  out  to  be  of  good 
capacity  and  breeding;  his  employment  between  his  lord 

13  The  man  on  whose  soul  he  hopes  that  God  will  have  mercy  is  the  one 
that  he  supposes  will  fall  in  the  combat : but  Sir  Andrew  hopes  to  escape 
unhurt,  and  to  have  no  present  occasion  for  that  blessing.  — Mason. 

14  Bum-bai.ly  is  a waggish  form  of  bum-bailiffs  which,  again,  is  a corrup- 
tion oi  bound-bailiff ; a subordinate  officer,  like  our  deputy-sheriff,  so  called 
from  the  bond  which  he  had  to  give  for  the  faithful  discharge  of  his  trust. 


SCENE  IV. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


103 


and  my  niece  confirms  no  less  : therefore  this  letter,  being 
so  excellently  ignorant,  will  breed  no  terror  in  the  youth,  — ■ 
he  will  find  it  comes  from  a clodpole.  But,  sir,  I will  de- 
liver his  challenge  by  word  of  mouth ; set  upon  Aguecheek 
a notable  report  of  valour  ; and  drive  the  gentleman  — as  I 
know  his  youth  will  aptly  receive  it  — into  a most  hideous 
opinion  of  his  rage,  skill,  fury,  and  impetuosity.  This  will 
so  fright  them  both,  that  they  will  kill  one  another  by  the 
look,  like  cockatrices 

Fab,  Here  he  comes  with  your  niece  : give  them  way  till 
he  take  leave,  and  presently  after  him. 

Sir  To,  I will  meditate  the  while  upon  some  horrid  mess- 
age for  a challenge.  \_Fxeunt  Sir  Toby,  Fabian,  and  Maria. 

Re-enter  Olivia,  with  Viola. 

OH,  IVe  said  too  much  unto  a heart  of  stone, 

And  laid  mine  honour  too  unchary  out : 

There’s  something  in  me  that  reproves  my  fault ; 

But  such  a headstrong  potent  fault  it  is. 

That  it  but  mocks  reproof. 

Vio,  With  the  same  haviour  that  your  passion  bears, 

Goes  on  my  master’s  grief. 

on.  Here,  wear  this  jewel  for  me,  — ’tis  my  picture  : 
Refuse  it  not ; it  hath  no  tongue  to  vex  you  : 

And,  I beseech  you,  come  again  to-morrow. 

What  shall  you  ask  of  me  that  I’ll  deny. 

That  honour,  saved,  may  upon  asking  give  ? 

Vio,  Nothing  but  this, — your  true  love  for  my  master. 

15  This  imaginary  serpent  was  fabled  to  have  the  power  of  darting  venom 
from  its  eyes,  or  of  killing  by  its  look.  Shakespeare  elsewhere  has  the 
phrase,  “ death-darting  eye  of  cockatrice.”  He  also  has  several  allusions  to 
the  same  beast  under  the  name  of  baslUsk, 


104 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OK 


ACT  III, 


on.  How  with  mine  honour  may  I give  him  that' 

' Which  I have  given  to  you  ? 

Vio,  I will  acquit  you. 

Oh.  Well,  come  again  to-morrow  : fare  thee  well : 

A fiend  like  thee  might  bear  my  soul  to  Hell.  \^Exit. 

Re-enter  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Fabian. 

Sir  To.  Gentleman,  God  save  thee  ! 

Vio.  And  you,  sir. 

Sir  To.  That  defence  thou  hast,  betake  thee  to’t : of  what 
nature  the  wrongs  are  thou  hast  done  him,  I know  not ; but 
thy  interceptor,  full  of  despite,  bloody  as  the  hunter,  attends 
thee  at  the  orchard-end  : dismount  thy  tuck,  be  yare  in  thy 
preparation ; for  thy  assailant  is  quick,  skilful,  and  deadly. 

Vio.  You  mistake,  sir ; I am  sure  no  man  hath  any  quar- 
rel to  me  : my  remembrance  is  very  free  and  clear  from  any 
image  of  offence  done  to  any  man. 

Sir  To.  You’ll  find  it  otherwise,  I assure  you  : therefore, 
if  you  hold  your  life  at  any  price,  betake  you  to  your  guard ; 
for  your  opposite  hath  in  him  what  youth,  strength,  skill,  and 
wrath  can  furnish  man  withal. 

Vio.  I pray  you,  sir,  what  is  he  ? 

Sir  To.  He  is  knight,  dubb’d  with  unhack’d  rapier  and  on 
^carpet  consideration ; but  he  is  a devil  in  private  brawl: 

16  Tuck  is  a rapier  or  long  dagger. — Yare  is  quick^  nimble,  ox  prompt. — 
> “ Attends  thee  ” here  means  waits  for  thee.  So  in  Coriolanus,  i.  lo : “I  am 
attended  at  the  cypress  grove.”  'i; 

Opposite  for  opponent  or  adversary.  So  in  the  second  sceile  of  this 
Act;  ” And  his  opposite,  the  youth,  bears  in  his  visage  no  great  presage  of*, 
cruelty.”  Shakespeare  never  uses 

18  I'he  meaning  of  this  may  be  gathered  from  Randle  Holme..  Speaking 
of  a certain  class  of  knights,  he  says,  ” They  are  termed  simply  knights  of 
the  carpet,  or^  knights  of  the  green  cloth,  to  distinguish  them  from  knights 


SCENE  IV. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


105 


souls  and  bodies  hath  he  divorced  three ; and  his  incense- 
ment  at  this  moment  is  so  implacable,  that  satisfaction  can  be 
none  but  by  pangs  of  death  and  sepulchre  : hob-nob  is  his 
word ; give’t  or  take’t. 

Vio.  I will  return  again  into  the  house,  and  desire  some 
conduct  20  of  the  lady.  I am  no  fighter.  I have  heard  of 
some  kind  of  men  that  put  quarrels  purposely  on  others,  to 
taste  21  their  valour  : belike  this  is  a man  of  that  quirk. 

Sir  To.  Sir,  no ; his  indignation  derives  itself  out  or  a 
very  competent  injury  ; therefore  get  you  on,  and  give  him 
his  desire.  Back  you  shall  not  to  the  house,  unless  you  un- 
dertake that  with  me  which  with  as  much  safety  you  might 
answer  him  : therefore  on,  or  strip  your  sword  stark  naked ; 
for  meddle  you  must,  that’s  certain,  or  forswear  to  wear  iron 
about  you. 

Vio.  This  is  as  uncivil  as  strange.  I beseech  you,  do  me 
this  courteous  office,  as  to  know  of  the  knight  what  my 
offence  to  him  is  : it  is  something  of  my  negligence,  nothing 
of  my  purpose. 

Sir  To.  I will  do  so. — Signior  Fabian,  stay  you  by  this 
gentleman  till  my  return.  \^Extt. 

Vio.  Pray  you,  sir,  do  you  know  of  this  matter  ? 

Fab.  I know  the  knight  is  incensed  against  you,  even  to  a 
mortal  arbitrement ; but  nothing  of  the  circumstance  more. 

Vio.  I beseech  you,  what  manner  of  man  is  he  ? 

that  are  dubbed  as  soldiers  in  the  field ; though  in  these  days  they  are  cre- 
ated or  dubbed  with  the  like  ceremony  as  the  others  are,  by  the  stroke  of  a 
naked  sword  upon  the  shoulder.” 

-9  Hob-nob,  hab-nab,  habbe  or  nabbe,  is  have  or  not  have,  hit  or  miss. 

20  Conduct  for  conductor,  escort,  or  convoy.  So  in  The  Tempest,  v.  i : 
“There  is  in  this  business  more  than  Nature  was  ever  conduct  of.  Also  in 
The  Merchant,  iv.  i : “Go  give  him  courteous  conduct  to  this  place.” 

21  Taste  in  the  sense  of  try  has  occurred  before  in  this  Act. 


ib6 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  HI. 


Fab,  Nothing  of  that  wonderful  promise,  to  read  him  by 
his  form,  as  you  are  like  to  find  him  in  the  proof  of  his  valour. 
He  is,  indeed,  sir,  the  most  skilful,  bloody,  and  fatal  opposite 
that  you^uld  possibly  have  found  in  any  part  of  Illyria. 
Will^,yt5u  walk  towards  him?  I will  make  your  peace  with 
if  I can. 

Vio,  I shall  be  much  bound  to  you  for’t : I am  one  that 
had  rather  go  with  sir  priest  than  sir  knight : 22  I care  not 
who  knows  so  much  of  my  mettle.  f Exeunt, 

\ 

Scene  V.  — The  Street  adjoining  Olivia’s  Garden, 


Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek. 

Sir  To,  Why,  man,  he’s  a very  devil ; I have  not  seen  such 
a I had  a pass  with  him,  rapier,  scabbard,  and  all, 

and  he  gives  me  the  stuck-in^  with  such  a mortal  motion, 
that  it  is  inevitable ; and,  on  the  answer,  he  pays  you  as 
surely  as  your  feet  hit  the  ground  they  step  on.  They  say  he 
has  been  fencer  to  the  Sophy. 

Sir  And,  Pox  on’t.  I’ll  not  meddle  with  him. 

Sir  To,  Ay,  but  he  will  not  now  be  pacified  : Fabian  can 
scarce  hold  him  yonder. 

Sir  And,  Plague  on’t,  an  I thought  he  had  been  valiant 
and  so  cunning  in  fence.  I’d  have  seen  him  damn’d  ere  I’d 
have  challenged  him.  Let  him  let  the  matter  slip,  and  I’ll 
give  him  my  horse,  gray  Capulet. 


22  Viola’s  fright  does  not  quench  her  humour,  or  her  sense  of  the  ludi- 
crous in  her  position.  Her  meaning  is,  that  she  would  rather  be  one  of  che 
parties  in  a marriage  than  in  a duel. 

1 Firago^  for  virago.  The  meaning  appears  to  be,  “ I have  never  seep  a 
viraginous  woman  so  obstreperous  and  violent  as  he  is.” 

2 A corruption  ol stoccata,  an  Italian  term  in  fencing. 


SCENE  V. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


107 


Sir  To.  I’ll  make  the  motion : stand  here,  make  a good 
show  on’t : this  shall  end  without  the  perdition  of  souls.  — 
\Aside:\  Marry,  I’ll  ride  your  horse  as  well  as  I ride  you.  — 

Enter  Fabian  and  Viola. 

\To  Fab.]  I have  his  horse  to  take  up3  the  quarrel : I have 
persuaded  him  the  youth’s  a devil. 

Fab.  He  is  as  horribly  conceited  of  him  ; ^ and  pants  and 
looks  pale,  as  if  a bear  were  at  his  heels. 

Sir  To.  {To  Vio.]  There’s  no  remedy,  sir;  he  will  fight 
with  you  for’s  oath-sake : marry,  he  hath  better  bethought 
him  of  his  quarrel,  and  he  finds  that  now  scarce  to  be  worth 
talking  of:  therefore  draw,  for  the  supportance  of  his  vow; 
he  protests  he  will  not  hurt  you. 

Vio.  {Aside.]  Pray  God  defend  me  ! A little  thing  would 
make  me  tell  them  how  much  I lack  of  a man. 

Fab.  Give  ground,  if  you  see  him  furious. 

Sir  To.  Come,  Sir  Andrew,  there’s  no  remedy ; the  gentle- 
man will,  for  his  honour’s  sake,  have  one  bout  with  you ; he 
cannot  by  the  duello  avoid  it : but  he  has  promised  me,  as  he 
is  a gentleman  and  a soldier,  he  will  not  hurt  you.  Come 
on ; to’t. 

Sir  And.  Pray  God,  he  keep  his  oath  ! {Draws. 

Vio.  I do  assure  you,  ’tis  against  my  will.  {Draws. 

Enter  Antonio. 

Ant.  Put  up  your  sword.  If  this  young  gentleman 
Have  done  offence,  I take  the  fault  on  me  : 

-If  you  offend  him,  I for  him  defy  you. 

8 Take  up  is  the  old  phrase  for  make  up  or  settle.  See  As  You  Like  It, 
page  134,  note  7. 

4 He  has  as  horrid  a conception  of  him. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  III. 


io8 


Sir  To,  You,  sir  ! why,  what  are  you  ? 

Ant,  \_Drawing.']  One,  sir,  that  for  his  love  dares  yet  do  more 
Than  you  have  heard  him  brag  to  you  he  will. 

Sir  To,  Nay,  if  you  be  an  undertaker,^  I am  for  you. 

nn  {.Draws. 

Fab,  O good  Sir  Toby,  hold  ! here  come  tfeftofificei^ 

Sir  To,  \To  Antonio.]  I’ll  be  with  you  anon. 

Vio,  [7h  Sir  And.]  Pray,  sir,  put  your  sword  up,  if  you 
please. 

Sir  And,  Marry,  will  I,  sir ; and,  for  that  I promised  you. 
I’ll  be  as  good  as  my  word  : he  will  bear  you  easily,  and 
reins  well. 

Enter  Officers. 


1 Off,  This  is  the  man ; do  thy  office. 

2 Off,  Antonio,  I arrest  thee  at  the  suit 
Of  Count  Orsino. 

Ant,  You  do  mistake  me,  sir. 

I Off,  No,  sir,  no  jot ; I know  your  favour  well, 

Though  now  you  have  no  sea-cap  on  your  head.  — 

Take  him' away  : he  knows  I know  him  well. 

Ant,  I must  obey. — [7h  Vio.]  This  comes  with  seeking 
you  : 

But  there’s  no  remedy  ; I shall  answer  it. 

What  will  you  do,  now  my  necessity 

Makes  me  to  ask  you  for  my  purse  ? It  grieves  me 

Much  more  for  what  I cannot  do  for  you 

Than  what  befalls  myself.  You  stand  amazed  ; 

But  be  of  comfort.^ 


^ One  who  takes  up  or  undertakes  the  quarrels  of  others ; an  intermeddler 
or  intruder. 

® Be  of  comfort  is  old  language  for  be  comforted. 


SCENE  V. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


2 Off,  Come,  sir,  away. 

Ant  I must  entreat  of  you  some  of  that  money. 

Vio,  What  money,  sir? 

For  the  fair  kindness  you  have  show’d  me  here, 

And,  part,  being  prompted  by  your  present  trouble. 

Out  of  my  lean  and  low  ability 

ril  lend  you  something  : my  having  is  not  much  ; 

I’ll  make  division  of  my  present  with  you  : 

Hold,  there  is  half  my  coffer. 

Ant,  Will  you  deny  me  now  ? 

Is’t  possible  that  my  deserts  to  you 
Can  lack  persuasion?  Do  not  tempt  my  misery, 

Lest  that  it  make  me  so  unsound  a man 
As  to  upbraid  you  with  those  kindnesses 
That  I have  done  for  you. 

Vio,  I know  of  none  : 

Nor  know  I you  by  voice  or  any  feature  : 

I hate  ingratitude  more  in  a man 

Than  lying,  vainness,  babbling,  drunkenness. 

Or  any  taint  of  vice  whose  strong  corruption 
Inhabits  our  frail  blood. 

Ant,  O Heavens  themselves  ! 

2 Off.  Come,  sir,  I pray  you,  go. 

Ant.  Let  me  speak  a little.  This  youth  that  you  see 
I snatch’d  one  half  out  of  the  jaws  of  death  ; 

Relieved  him  with  all  sanctity  of  love  ; 

And  to  this  image,  which  methought  did  promise 
Most  venerable  worth,  did  I devotion. 

I Off,  What’s  that  to  us?  The  time  goes  by  : away 
Ant.  But,  O,  how  vile  an  idol  proves  this  god  1 — 
'Thou  hast,  Sebastian,  done  good  feature  shame. 

In  nature  there’s  no  blemish  but  the  mind ; 


no 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  III. 


None  can  be  call'd  deform'd  but  the  unkind  : ^ 

Virtue  is  beauty ; but  the  beauteous-evil 
Are  empty  trunks,®  o'erflourish'd  by  the  Devil. 

I Off.  The  man  grows  mad:  away  with  him!  — Come, 
come,  sir. 

Ant.  Lead  me  on.  \^Exeunt  Officers  with  Antonio. 

Vio.  Methinks  his  words  do  from  such  passion  fly, 

That  he  believes  himself ; so  do  not  I.^ 

Prove  true,  imagination,  O,  prove  true. 

That  I,  dear  brother,  be  now  ta'en  for  you  1 

Sir  To.  Come  hither,  knight ; — come  hither,  Fabian  : 


we'll  whisper  o'er  a couplet  or  two  of  most  sage  saws. 

Vio.  He  named  Sebastian  : I my  brother  know  "^4/ 
Yet  living  in  my  glass  even  such,  and  so, , 

In  favour  was  my  brother ; and  he  went  w-  A 

Still  in  this  fashion,  colour,  ornament. 

For  him  I imitate  : O,  if  it  prove, 

Tempests  are  kind,  and  salt  waves  fresh  in  love  ! \_Exit. 

Sir  To.  A very  dishonest  paltry  boy,  and  more  a coward 
than  a hare  : his  dishonesty  appears  in  leaving  his  friend  here 
in  necessity,  and  denying  him ; and,  for  his  cowardship,  ask 
Fabian. 

Eab.  A coward,  a most  devout  coward,  religious  in  it. 

Sir  And.  'Slid,  I’ll  after  him  again,  and  beat  him. 

Sir  To.  Do  ; cuff  him  soundly,  but  never  draw  thy  sword. 
Sir  And.  An  I do  not, — \Exit. 


7 Unkind,  here,  is  unnatu7'al,  ungrateful,  or  without  natural  affection. 
So  the  Poet  often  has  kind  for  nature.  See  As  You  Like  It,  page  117,  note  2. 

® Trunks,  being  then  part  of  the  furniture  of  apartments,  were  orn?* 
mented  with  scroll-work  or  flourished  devices. 

® I hat  is,  “ I do  not  yet  believe  myself,  when  from  this  accident  I gather 
hope  of  my  brother’s  life.” 

His  resemblance  survives  in  the  reflection  of  my  own  figure.” 


SCENE  I. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


Ill 


Fab.  Come,  let’s  see  the  event. 

Sir  To.  I dare  lay  any  money  ’twill  be  nothing  yet. 


\Exeu7it. 


ACT  IV. 


Scene  \.—  The  Street  adjoining  Olivia’s  Garden. 

Enter  Sebastian  and  the  Clown. 

Clo.  Will  you  make  me  believe  that  I am  not  sent  for  you  ? 

Seb.  Go  to,  go  toj  thou  art  a foolish  fellow  : 

Let  me  be  clear  of  thee. 

Cto.  Well  held  out,  i’faith  ! No,  I do  not  know  you ; 
nor  I am  not  sent  to  you  by  my  lady,  to  bid  you  come  speak 
with  her  j nor  your  name  is  not  Master  Cesario  j nor  this  is 
not  my  nose  neither.  Nothing  that  is  so  is  so. 

Seb.  I pr’ythee,  vent  thy  folly  somewhere  else  ; 

Thou  knowst  not  me. 

Clo.  Vent  my  folly  ! he  has  heard  that  word  of  some  great 
man,  and  now  applies  it  to  a Fool : vent  my  folly.  I am 
afraid  this  great  lubberly  world  will  prove  a cockney I 

1 The  phrase  go  to,  now  pretty  much  obsolete,  was  very  common  in  the 
Poet’s  time,  especially  in  colloquial  language.  Sometimes  it  is  nearly  equiv- 
alent to  our  be  off,  which  appears  to  be  the  sense  of  it  in  this  place ; and 
sometimes  it  means  about  the  same  as  come  on. 

2 The  meaning  seems  to  be,  “ I am  afraid  this  great  lumpish  world  will 
be  all  given  over  to  cockney  ism." — Cockney  seems  to  be  understood  the 
world  over  as  a t^rm  for  a Londoner.  Minsheu’s  Ductor  in  Linguas,  1617, 
explains  it  thus : “ A Cgckney  may  be  taken  for  a child  tenderly  and  wan- 
tonly brought  up.”  So,  too,  in  Phillips’s  World  of  Words,  1670 : ‘‘  Cockney, 
a nickname  commonly  given  to  one  born  and  bred  in  the  city  of  London ; 


I 12 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  ly 


pr’ythee,  now,  ungird  thy  strangeness,  and  tell  me  what  I 
shall'  vent  to  my  lady : shall  I vent  to  her  that  thou  art 
coming  ? 

Sed,  I pr’ythee,  foolish  Greek, ^ depart  from  me  : 

There’s  money  for  thee  : if  you  tarry  longer, 

I shall  give  worse  payment. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  thou  hast  an  open  hand.  — These  wise 
men,  that  give  Fools  money,  get  themselves  a good  report 
after  fourteen  years’  purchase.^ 

Enter  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek. 

Sir  And.  Now,  sir,  have  I met  you  again  ? there’s  for  you. 

{Striking  Sebastian. 

Seb.  Why,  there’s  for  thee,  and  there,  and  there,  and 
there  ! {Beating  Sir  Andrew. 

Are  all  the  people  mad  ? 

Enter  Sir  Tobv  Belch  and  Fabian. 

Sir  To.  Hold,  sir,  or  Fll  throw  your  dagger  o’er  the  house. 

Clo,  This  will  I tell  my  lady  straight : I would  not  be  in 
some  of  your  coats  for  twopence.  {Exit, 

Sir  To,  Come  on,  sir ; hold.  {Holding  Sebastian. 

Sir  And,  Nay,  let  him  alone  : Fll  go  another  way  to  work 
with  him  ; Fll  have  an  action  of  battery  against  him,  if  there 
be  any  law  in  Illyria  : though  I struck  him  first,  yet  it’s  no 
matter  for  that. 

also  a fondling  child,  tenderly  brought  up  and  cocker' dr  — " Ungird  thy 
strangeness  ” is  put  off  thy  estrangement.  7'he  Clown,  mistaking  Sebastian 
for  Cesario,  thinks  his  non-recognition  to  be  put  on  or  assumed. 

3 A vierry  Greek,  and  a foolish  Greek,  were  ancient  proverbial  expressions 
applied  to  boon  companions,  good  fellows,  as  they  were  called,  who  spent 
their  time  in  riotous  mirth. 

4 That  is,  at  a very  extravagant  price ; twelve  years’  purchase  being  then 
the  current  price  of  estates. 


SCENE  I. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


II3 


Sed.  Let  go  thy  hand. 

Sir  To,  Come,  sir,  I will  not  let  you  go.  Come,  my  young 
soldier,  put  up  your  iron  : you  are  \^11  fle^hld ; ^ ^ome  on. 
Seb,  I will  be  free  from  thee.  \_Disengages  himself. What 
wouldst  thou  now  ? 

If  thou  darest  tempt  me  further,  draw  thy  sword.  [^Draws, 
Sir  To.  What,  what?  Nay,  then  I must  have  an  ounce  or 
two  of  this  malapert  blood  from  you.  {Draws. 


Enter  Olivia. 


Oh.  Hold,  Toby ; on  thy  life,  I charge  thee,  hold  * ^ 

Sir  To.  Madam  ! 


Oli.  Will  it  be  ever  thus  ? Ungracious  wretch. 

Fit  for  the  mountains  and  the  barbarous  caves. 

Where  manners  ne'er  were  preach’d,  out  of  my  sight ! — 

Be  not  offended,  dear  Cesario.  — 

Rudesby,^  be  gone  1 — {Exeunt  Sir  To.,  Sir  And.,  and  Fab. 


I pr’ythee,  gentle  friend. 


Let  thy  fair  wisdom,  not  thy  passion,  sway 
In  this  uncivil  and  unjust  extent*^ 

Against  thy  peace.  Go  with  me  to  my  house ; 

And  hear  thou  there  how  many  fruitless  pranks 
This  ruffian  hath  botch’d  up,  that  thou  thereby 
Mayst  smile  at  this  : thou  shalt  not  choose  but  go  ; 

Do  not  deny.  Beshrew  his  soul  for  me, 

5 The  verb  to  Jlesh  and  the  noun  Jteshment  were  used  of  one’s  first  ser- 
vice with  the  sword.  So,  too,  an  unjleshed  sword  is  called  a maiden  sword. 
Sir  Toby  means  to  intimate  that  Sebastian,  whom  he  supposes  to  be  Viola, 


7 Extent,  as  here  used,  is  a legal  term  for  a civil  process  whereby  the 
person  and  property  of  a debtor  were  seized  and  held  to  answer  in  payment 
of  the  debt.  See  As  You  Like  It,  page  78,  note  3. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  IV. 


II4 


He  started  one  poor  heart®  of  mine  in  thee. 

Sed.  [_Astde,^  What  relish  is  in  this  ? how  runs  the  stream  ? 
Or  I am  mad,  or  else  this  is  a dream  : 

Let  fancy  still  my  sense  in  Lethe  steep; 

If  it  be  thus  to  dream,  still  let  me  sleep  ! 

Oli,  Nay,  come,  I pray  : would  thou’dst  be  ruled  by  me  ! 
Seb.  Madam,  I will. 

Oli,  O,  say  so,  and  so  be  ! \_Exeunt, 


Scene  IL  — A Room  in  Olivia’s  House, 

Enter  Maria  and  the  Clown. 

Mar.  Nay,  I pr’ythee,  put  on  this  gown  and  this  beard ; 
make  him  believe  thou  art  SirTopas  the  curate  ; do  it  quickly  ; 
I’ll  call  Sir  Toby  the  whilst.  \^Exit. 

Clo.  Well,  I’ll  put  it  on,  and  I will  dissemble  ^ myself  in’t ; 
and  I would  I were  the  first  that  ever  dissembled  in  such  a 
gown.  I am  not  tall^  enough  to  become  the  function  well; 
nor  lean  enough  to  be  thought  a good  student : but  to  be  said 
an  honest  man  and  a good  housekeeper,  goes  as  fairly  as  to 
say  a careful  man  and  a great  scholar.  The  competitors  ^ 
enter. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Maria. 

Sir  To,  God  bless  thee,  master  parson  ! 

8 An  equivoque  is  here  intended  between  hart  and  heart,  which  were 
formerly  written  alike. 

1 That  is,  disguise.  Shakespeare  has  here  used  a Latinism.  “ Dissimulo, 
to  dissemble,  to  cloak,  to  hide,”  says  Hutton's  Dictionary,  1583. 

2 Tall  was  sometimes  used  in  the  sense  of  lusty,  thus  making  a good  an- 
tithesis to  lean. 

8 Confederate  ox  partner  is  one  of  the  old  senses  of  co7npetitor.  — To  be  a 
good  housekeeper  is  to  be  hospitable.  So,  in  2 Henry  VI.,  i.  i,  we  have  house- 
keeping for  hospitality,  or  keeping  open  house  : ” Thy  deeds,  thy  plainness, 
and  thy  housekeeping,  have  won  the  greatest  favour  of  the  commons." 


SCENE  II. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


II5 

Clo.  Bonos  dies,  Sir  Toby : for,  as  the  old  hermit  of 
Prague,  that  never  saw  pen  and  ink,  very  wittily  said  to  a 
niece  of  King  Gorboduc,  That  that  is  is;  so  I,  being  master 
parson,  am  master  parson  5 for,  what  is  that  but  that,  and 
is  but  is 

Sir  To.  To  him.  Sir  Topas. 

Clo.  What,  ho,  I say,  peace  in  this  prison ! 

Sir  To.  The  knave  counterfeits  well ; a good  knave, 

Mai.  [ Within.']  Who  calls  there  ? 

Clo.  Sir  Topas  the  curate,  who  comes  to  visit  Malvolio  the 
lunatic. 

Mai  [ Withinl]  Sir  Topas,  Sir  Topas,  good  Sir  Topas,  go 
to  my  lady. 

Clo,  Out,  hyperbolical  fiend  ! ^ how  vexest  thou  this  man  ! 
talkest  thou  nothing  but  of  ladies  ? 

Sir  To,  Well  said,  master  parson. 

Mai,  [ Withinl\  Sir  Topas,  never  was  man  thus  wronged  : 
good  Sir  Topas,  do  not  think  I am  mad  : they  have  laid  me 
here  in  hideous  darkness. 

Clo,  Fie,  thou  dishonest  Satan  ! I call  thee  by  the  most 
modest  terms  ; for  I am  one  of  those  gentle  ones  that  will  use 
the  Devil  himself  with  courtesy  : say’st  thou  this  house  is  dark  ? 

Mai.  [ Withinl\  As  Hell,  Sir  Topas. 

Clo,  Why,  it  hath  bay-windows^  transparent  as  bam^a- 

4 A humorous  banter  upon  the  language  of  the  schools. 

° This  use  of  hyperbolical  seems  to  be  original  with  the  Clown.  Cowley, 
however,  in  his  Essay  Of  Greatness,  applies  the  phrase  “ hyperbolical  fop  ” 
to  one  Senecio,  who  is  described  by  Seneca  the  Elder  as  possessed  with  “ a 
ridiculous  affectation  of  grandeur”;  insomuch  that  he  would  speak  none 
but  big  words,  eat  nothing  but  what  was  big,  nor  wear  any  shoe  that  was 
not  big  enough  for  both  his  feet. 

6 Bay-windows  were  large  projecting  windows,  probably  so  called  be- 
cause they  occupied  a whole  bay  or  space  between  two  cross-beams  in  a 
building. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  IV. 


I l6 


does,  and  the  clere-stor^s  toward  the  south-north  are  as 
lustrous  as  ebony ; and-yet  complainest  thou  of  obstruction  ? 

Mai,  [ Within.']  I am  not  mad,  Sir  Topas  : I say  to  you, 
this  house  is  dark. 

Clo.  Madman,  thou  errest : I say,  there  is  no  darkness 
but  ignorance  ; in  which  thou  art  more  puzzled  than  the 
Egyptians  in  their  fog. 

Mai,  [Within.]  I say,  this  house  is  as  dark  as  ignorance, 
though  ignorance  were  as  dark  as  Hell ; and  I say,  there  was 
never  man  thus  abused.  I am  no  more  mad  than  you  are  : 
make  the  trial  of  it  in  any  constant  question.® 

Clo,  What  is  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras  concerning  wild- 
fowl? 

Mai.  [ Within.]  That  the  soul  of  our  grandam  might  haply 
inhabit  a bird. 

Clo.  What  thinkest  thou  of  his  opinion? 

Mai.  [ Within.]  I think  nobly  of  the  soul,  and  no  way 
approve  his  opinion.. 

Clo.  Fare  thee  well.  Remain  thou  still  in  darkness  : thou 
shalt  hold  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras  ere  I will  allow  of  thy 
wits ; and  fear  to  kill  a woodcock,^  lest  thou  dispossess  the 
soul  of  thy  grandam.  Fare  thee  well. 

Mai.  [ Within.]  Sir  Topas,  Sir  Topas, — 

7 Clere-storeys,  in  Gothic  architecture,  are  the  row  of  windows  running 
along  the  upper  part  of  a lofty  hall  or  of  a church,  over  the  arches  of  the 
nave. 

8 That  is,  by  repeating  the  same  question.  A crazy  man,  on  being  asked 
to  repeat  a thing  he  has  just  said,  is  very  apt  to  go  on  and  say  something 
else.  So  in  Hamlet,  iii.  4 : “ ’Tis  not  madness  that  I have  utter’d : bring 
me  to  the  test,  and  I the  matter  will  re-word ; which  madness  would  gam- 
bol from.” 

® The  Clown  mentions  a woodcock,  because  it  was  proverbial  as  a foolish 
bird,  and  therefore  a proper  ancestor  for  a man  out  of  his  wits. 


SCENE  II. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


II7 


Sir  To.  My  most  exquisite  Sir  Topas  >. 

Clo.  Nay,  I am  for  all  waters.^® 

Mar.  Thou  mightst  have  done  this  without  thy  beard  and 
gown  : he  sees  thee  not. 

Sir  To.  To  him  in  thine  own  voice,  and  bring  me  word 
how  thou  findest  him ; I would  we  were  well  rid  of  this 
knavery.  If  he  may  be  conveniently  deliver’d,  I would  he 
were ; for  I am  now  so  far  in  offence  with  my  niece,  that  I 
cannot  pursue  with  any  safety  this  sport  to  the  upshot.  Come 
by-and-by  to  my  chamber.  \_Exeunt  Sir  Toby  and  Maria. 

Clo.  [Singing.]  Hey,  Robin,  jolly  Robin, 

Tell  me  how  thy  lady  doesT 


MaL  \ Withinr^  Fool, — 

Clo.  [Singing.]  My  lady  is  unkind,  perdy. 

MaL  \_WithinL\  Fool, — 

Clo.  [Singing.]  Alas,  why  is  she  sa  I 
MaL  {WithinP^  Fool,  I say,— 

Clo.  [Singing.]  She  loves  another — Who  calls,  ha? 

MaL  [ Within?^  Good  Fool,  as  ever  thou  wilt  deserve  well 
at  my  hand,  help  me  to  a candle,  and  pen,  ink,  and  paper : 
as  I am  a gentleman,  I will  live  to  be  thankful  to  thee  for  t. 
Clo.  Master  Malvolio? 

MaL  \_WithinS\  Ay,  good  Fool. 

Clo.  Alas,  sir,  how  fell  you  beside  your  five  wits  ? 

MaL  \^Within:\  Fool,  there  was  never  man  so  noto- 
riously abused  : I am  as  well  in  my  wits.  Fool,  as  thou  art. 


10  The  meaning  appears  to  be,  I can  turn  my  hand  to  any  thing,  or  as- 
sume any  character.  Florio  in  his  translation  of  Montaigne,  speaking  o 
Aristotle,  says,  “ He  hath  an  oar  in  every  water,  and  meddleth  with  all 
things.”  And  in  his  Second  Frutes  : ” I am  a knight  for  all  saddles. 

11  This  ballad  may  be  found  in  Percy’s  Reliques.  Dr.  Nott  has  also 
printed  it  among  the  poems  of  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  the  elder. 

12  Notoriously  in  the  sense  of  prodigiously  or  outrageously.  We  have  no- 
torious in  the  same  sense  near  the  end  of  the  play. 


ii8 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  IV. 


Clo,  But  as  well  ? then  you  are  mad  indeed,  if  you  be  no 
better  in  your  wits  than  a fool. 

Mai.  {^Within.'\  They  have  here  propertied  me;^^ 
me  in  darkness,  send  ministers  to  me,  asses,  and  do  all  they 
can  to  face  me  out  of  my  wits. 

Clo.  Advise  you  what  you  say;  the  minister  is  here.^^  — 
Malvolio,  Malvolio,  thy  wits  the  Heavens  restore  ! endeavour 
thyself  to  sleep,  and  leave  thy  vain  bibble-babble. 

Mai.  [ Within  Sir  Topas,  — 

I Clo.  Maintain  no  words  with  him,  good  fellow. — Who,  I, 
/sir?  not  I,  sir.  God  b’  wi’  you,!^  good  Sir  Topas  ! — Marry, 
amen.  — I will,  sir,  I will. 

Mai.  \ Within.'\  Fool,  Fool,  Fool,  I say, — 

Clo.  Alas,  sir,  be  patient.  What  say  you,  sir  ? I am  shent 
for  speaking  to  you. 

Mai.  [ Within.^  Good  Fool,  help  me  to  some  light  and 
some  paper  : I tell  thee,  I am  as  well  in  my  wits  as  any  man 
in  Illyria. 

Clo.  Well-a-day,  that  you  were,  sir  ! 

Mai.  \^Within.'\  By  this  hand,  I am.  Good  Fool,  some 
ink,  paper,  and  light ; and  convey  what  I will  set  down  to  my 
lady : it  shall  advantage  thee  more  than  ever  the  bearing  of 
letter  did. 

“ Taken  possession  of  me  as  of  a man  unable  to  look  to  himself.'* 

14  The  Clown,  in  the  dark,  acts  two  persons,  and  counterfeits,  by  varia- 
tion of  voice,  a dialogue  between  himself  and  Sir  Topas ; the  preceding  part 
of  this  speech  being  spoken  as  Clown,  the  following  as  Priest.  — Advise 
you  " is  bethink  you,  consider,  or  be  careful.  — In  the  next  line,  “ endeavour 
thyself  to  sleep " is  induce,  persuade,  or  compose  thyself ; endeavour  being 
used  transitively. 

1®  Here  we  have  the  old  phrase  “ God  be  with  you  ” in  the  process  of 
contraction  into  the  modern  phrase  good  bye.  See  As  You  Like  It,  page 
131,  note  6. 

Shent  is  an  old  word  for  scolded,  blamed,  or  reprimanded. 


SCENE  II. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


1 19 

Clo,  I will  help  you  to’t.  But  tell  me  true,  are  you  not 
mad  indeed  ? or  do  you  but  counterfeit  ? 

MaL  [ Within.~\  Believe  me,  I am  not ; I tell  thee  true. 

Clo.  Nay,  I’ll  ne’er  believe  a madman  till  I see  his  brains. 
I will  fetch  you  light,  and  paper,  and  ink. 

MaL  [ WithinL\  Fool,  I’ll  requite  it  in  the  highest  degree  ; 
I pr’ythee,  be  gone. 

Clo.  [Singing.] 

/ am  gone,  sir;  and  anon,  sir, 
ril  be  with  you  again. 

In  a trice,  like  to  the  old  Vice,^'^ 

You  need  to  sustain; 

Who,  with  dagger  of  lath,  in  his  rage  and  his  wrath. 
Cries,  ah,  ha  ! to  the  Devil: 

Like  a mad  lad,  pare  thy  nails,  dad; 

Adieu,  goodman  Devil.  \jExit. 

17  Both  the  Vice  and  the  Devil  were  stereotyped  personages  in  the  old 
Moral-plays  which  were  in  use  for  many  ages  before  the  Poet’s  time,  and 
were  then  just  going  out  of  use.  The  Vice,  sometimes  called  Iniquity,  was 
grotesquely  dressed  in  a cap  with  ass’s  ears,  and  a long  coat,  and  armed 
with  a dagger  of  lath.  He  commonly  acted  the  part  of  a broad,  rampant 
jester  and  buffoon,  full  of  mad  pranks  and  mischief-making,  liberally  dashed 
with  a sort  of  tumultuous,  swaggering  fun.  Especially,  he  was  given  to 
cracking  ribald  and  saucy  jokes  with  and  upon  the  Devil,  and  treating  him 
with  a style  of  coarse  familiarity  and  mockery ; and  a part  of  his  ordinary 
functions  was  to  bestride  the  Devil,  and  beat  him  with  his  dagger  till  he 
roared,  and  the  audience  roared  with  him ; the  scene  ending  with  his  being 
carried  off  to  Hell  on  the  Devil’s  back.  The  Vice  was  the  germ  of  the  pro- 
fessional Fool  or  Clown,  which  Shakespeare  delivers  in  so  many  forms,  and 
always  so  full  of  matter. 

18  Goodman  in  old  language  is  nearly  equivalent  to  master,  or  to  our  flat- 
tened form  of  it,  mister.  It  was  common  for  women  to  speak  of  their  hus- 
bands as  my  goodman.  And  in  St.  Matthew,  xx.  ii : “ They  murmured 
against  the  goodman  of  the  house.”  Also  in  St.  Luke,  xii.  39.  The  verses 
in  the  text  are  most  likely  from  an  old  popular  song,  of  which  nothing  fur- 
ther i^  known. 


120 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  IV. 


Scene  III.  — Olivia’s  Garden, 

Enter  Sebastian. 

Seh,  This  is  the  air ; that  is  the  glorious  Sun  ; 

This  pearl  she  gave  me,  I do  feel’t  and  see’t : 

And  though  ’tis  wonder  that  enwraps  me  thus, 

Yet  ’tis  not  madness.  Where’s  Antonio,  then? 

I could  not  find  him  at  the  Elephant  : 

Yet  there  he  was ; and  there  I found  this  credit,i 
That  he  did  range  the  town  to  seek  me  out. 

His  counsel  now  might  do  me  golden  service ; 

For,  though  my  soul  disputes  well  with  my  sense, 

That  this  may  be  some  error,  but  no  madness. 

Yet  doth  this  accident  and  flood  of  fortune 
So  far  exceed  all  instance,  all  discourse. 

That  I am  ready  to  distrust  mine  eyes. 

And  wrangle  with  my  reason,  that  persuades  me 
To  any  other  trust  but  that  I’m  mad, — 

Or  else  the  lady’s  mad  : yet,  if  ’twere  so. 

She  could  not  sway  her  house,  command  her  followers, 

Take  and  give  back  affairs,  and  their  dispatch,^ 

With  such  a smooth,  discreet,  and  stable  bearing. 

As  I perceive  she  does.  There’s  something  in’t 

1 Credit  is  oddly  used  here,  but  in  the  sense,  apparently,  of  information 
or  intelligence.  So  in  a letter  from  Queen  Elizabeth  to  Sir  Nicholas 
Throckmorton  : “ This  bearer  came  from  you  with  great  speed.  We  have 
heard  his  credit^  and  find  your  carefulness  and  diligence  very  great.” 

2 T he  language  is  very  odd  and  obscure,  and  gives  but  a slight  hint  of 
the  speaker’s  probable  meaning.  A good  housekeeper,  at  the  head  of  a 
large  domestic  establishment,  naturally  has  her  time  a good  deal  occupied 
in  taking  account  or  receiving  word  of  things  that  need  to  be  done,  and  in 
issuing  orders  and  directions  for  the  doing  of  them,  or  for  ” their  dispatch.’ 


SCENE  III. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


I2I 


That  is  deceivable.^  But  here  the  lady  comes. 

Enter  Olivia  and  a Priest. 

Oli,  Blame  not  this  haste  of  mine.  If  you  mean  well, 
Now  go  with  me  and  with  this  holy  man 
Into  the  chantry  ^ by  : there,  before  him, 

And  underneath  that  consecrated  roof, 

Plight  me  the  full  assurance  of  your  faith ; 

That  my  most  jealous  and  too  doubtful^  soul 
May  live  at  peace  : he  shall  conceal  it. 

Whiles  you  are  willing  it  shall  come  to  note,® 

What  time  we  will  our  celebration  keep 
According  to  my  birth.  What  do  you  say? 

Seb,  I’ll  follow  this  good  man,  and  go  with  you ; 

And,  having  sworn  truth,  ever  will  be  true. 

OH,  Then  lead  the  way,  good  father ; — and  heavens  so 
shine. 

That  they  may  fairly  note  this  act  of  mine  ! [^Exeunt 


3 Deceivable  for  deceiving  or  deceptive  ; the  passive  form,  again,  with  the 
active  sense.  See  page  99,  note  6. 

4 A chantry  was  a little  chapel,  or  particular  altar  in  some  cathedral 
or  parochial  church,  endowed  for  the  purpose  of  having  Masses  sung 
therein  for  the  souls  of  the  founders ; a place  for  chanting. 

s Doubtful  in  the  sense  of  fearful.  The  Poet  often  uses  doubt  for  fear. 

6 Whiles  was  often  used  thus  in  the  sense  of  until. — Note,  from  the  Latin 
notitia,  is  several  times  used  by  the  Poet  in  the  sense  of  knowledge.  — The 
ceremony  to  which  Olivia  here  so  sweetly  urges  Sebastian  is  the  ancient 
solemn  troth-plight,  as  it  was  called,  which,  as  it  had  the  binding  force  of  an 
actual  marriage,  might  well  give  peace  to  an  anxious  maiden  till  the  day  of 
full  nuptial  possession  should  arrive. 

A bright,  glad  sunshine  falling  upon  a bride  or  new-made  wife  was 
formerly  thought  auspicious;  it  inspired  a feeling  that  the  Powers  ab(|^ 
were  indeed  smiling  their  benediction  upon  the  act;  and  so  was  fitting 
cause  for  prayer  beforehand,  and  of  thanksgiving  afterwards.  Of  course 
this  was  a fond  old  superstition : but  I believe  marriage  is  not  even  yet 
so  far  enlightened  and  “ de-religionized  ” but  that  something  of  the  old 
feeling  still  survives. 


122 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  I OR, 


ACT  V 


.V 


ACT  V. 


Scene  I.  — The  Street  before  Otjvia’s  House, 

Enter  the  Clown  and  Fabian. 

Fab,  Now,  as  thou  lovest  me,  let  me  see  his  letter. 

Clo,  Good  Master  Fabian,  grant  me  another  request. 

^Fab,  Any  thing. 

Clo,  Do  not  desire  to  see  this  letter. 

^FaS",  This  is,  to  give  a dog,  and,  in  recompense,  desire 
my  dog  again. 

Enter  the  Duke,  Viola,  Curio,  and  Attendants. 

Duke,  Belong  you  to  the  Lady  Olivia,  friends  ? 

Clo,  Ay,  sir ; we  are  some  of  her  trappings. 

Duke,  I know  thee  well : how  dost  thou,  my  good  fellow  ? 

Clo,  Truly,  sir,  the  better  for  my  foes,  and  the  worse  for 
my  friends. 

Duke,  Just  the  contrary;  the  better  for  thy  friends. 

Clo,  No,  sir,  the  worse. 

Duke,  How  can  that  be  ? 

Clo,  Marry,  sir,  they  praise  me,  and  make  an  ass  of  me. 
Now  my  foes  tell  me  plainly  I am  an  ass  : so  that  by  my  foes, 
sir,  I profit  in  the  knowledge  of  myself ; and  by  my  friends 
I am  abused : so  that,  conclusions  to  be  as  kisses,^  if  your 

1 Warburton  thought  this  should  be,  “ conclusion  to  be  asked  is  ” ; upon 
which  Coleridge  remarks  thus : “ Surely  Warburton  could  never  have 
wooed  by  kisses  and  won,  or  he  would  not  have  flounder-flatted  so  just  ana 
humorous,  nor  less  pleasing  than  humorous,  an  image  into  so  profound  a 


SCENE  I. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


123 


four  negatives  make  your  two  affirmatives,  why,  then  the 
worse  for  my  friends,  and  the  better  for  my  foes. 

Duke.  Why,  this  is  excellent. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  sir,  no ; though  it  please  you  to  be  one 
of  my  friends. 

Duke.  Thou  shalt  not  be  the  worse  for  me  : there’s  gold. 

\_Gives  money. 

Clo.  ' But  that  it  would  be  double-dealing,  sir,  I would 


you  could  make  it  another. 

Duke.  O,  you  give  me  ill  counsel. 

Clo.  Put  your  grace  in  your  pocket,^  sir,  for  this  once, 
and  let  your  flesh  and  blood  obey  it. 

Duke.  Well,  I will  be  so  much  a sinner  to  be  a double- 
dealer : there’s  another.  \_Gives  money. 

Clo.  Primo,  secundo^  tertio^  is  a good  play ; and  the  old 
saying  is,  the  third  p3.ys  for  all : the  tviplex^  sir,  is  a good 
' tripping  measure  \ as  the  bells  of  Saint  Bennet,  sir,  may  put 


you  in  mind,  — one,  two,  three. 

Duke.  You  can  fool  no  more  money  out  of  me  at  this 
throw : if  you  will  let  your  lady  know  I am  here  to  speak 
with  her,  and  bring  her  along  with  you,  it  may  awake  my 
bounty  further. 

Clo.  Marry,  sir,  lullaby  to  your  bounty  till  I come  again. 


--nihility.  In  the  name  of  love  and  wonder,  do  not  four  kisses  make  a double 
/^affirmative?  The  humour  lies  in  the  whispered  ‘No!’  and  the  inviting 
‘ Don’t  I ’ with  which  the  maiden’s  kisses  are  accompanied,  and  thence  com- 
pared to  negatives,  which  by  repetition  constitute  an  affirmative.”  The 
' Cambridge  Editors,  however,  note  upon  the  passage  thus  : ” The  meaning 
seems  to  be  nothing  more  recondite  than  this  : as  in  the  syllogism  it  takes 
two  premisses  to  make  one  conclusion,  so  it  takes  two  people  to  make  one 

kiss.”  . , 

2 The  Clown  puns  so  swiftly  here  that  it  is  not  easy  to  keep  up  with  him. 
The  quibble  lies  between  the  two  senses  oi grace  as  a title  and  as  a gracious 


impulse  or  thought. 


124 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  V. 


I go,  sir ; but  I would  not  have  you  to  think  that  my  desire 
of  having  is  the  sin  of  covetousness  : but,  as  you  say,  sir,  let 
your  bounty  take  a nap,  I will  awake  it  anon.  \_Exit, 

Vio,  Here  comes  the  ma%  sir,  that  did  rescue  me. 


cj  ^ Enter  with  E^Tomo.  /)  . , 

Duke,  That  face  of  his  I do  remember  well  y ^ ^ 


1 /X 


Yet,  when  I saw  it  last,  it  was  besmear’d 
As  black  as  Vulcan  in  the  smoke  of  war : 

A bawbling  vessel  was  he  captain  of, 

For  shallow  draught  and  bulk  unprizable 
With  which  such  scathful  grapple  did  he  make 
With  the  most  noble  bottom  of  our  fleet. 

That  very  envy  and  the  tongue  of  loss  ^ 

Cried  fame  and  honour  on  him.  — What’s  the  matter? 

I Off,  Orsino,  this  is  that  Antonio 
That  took  the  Phoenix  and  her  fraught  from  Candy ; 
And  this  is  he  that  did  the  Tiger  board. 

When  your  young  nephew  Titus  lost  his  leg  : 

Here  in  the  streets,  desperate  of  shame  and  state, ^ 

In  private  brabble  did  we  apprehend  him. 

Vio,  He  did  me  kindness,  sir ; drew  on  my  side  ; 
But,  in  conclusion,  put  strange  speech  upon  me,  — 

I know  not  what  ’twas,  but  distraction. 

Duke,  Notable  pirate  ! thou  salt-water  thief! 

What  foolish  boldness  brought  thee  to  their  mercies. 


/) 


8 Unprizable  is  evidently  used  here  in  the  sense  of  worthless,  or  of  no 
price.  The  Poet  elsewhere  has  it  in  the  opposite  sense  of  inestimable, 

4 " The  tongue  of  loss  ” here  means  the  tongue  of  the  loser  ; but  is  much 
more  elegant.  — Scathful  is  harmful,  damaging,  or  destructive, 

^ Inattentive  to  his  character  or  condition,  like  a desperate  man. 


SCENE  I. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


125 


Whom  thou,  in  terms  so  bloody  and  so  dear,® 

Hast  made  thine  enemies  ? 

jlfit  Orsino,  noble  sir, 

Be  pleased  that  I shake  off  these  names  you  give  me  : 
Antonio  never  yet  was  thief  or  pirate. 

Though,  I confess,  on  base  and  ground  enough, 

Orsino’s  enemy.  A witchcraft  drew  me  hither : 

That  most  ingrateful  boy  there  by  your  side. 

From  the  rude  sea’s  enraged  and  foamy  mouth 
Did  I redeem  ; a wreck  past  hope  he  was  : 

His  life  I gave  him,  and  did  thereto  add 
My  love,  without  retention  or  restraint, 

All  his  in  dedication ; for  his  sake 
Did  I expose  myself,  pure  for  his  love. 

Unto  the  danger  of  this  adverse  town ; 

Drew  to  defend  him  wheii  he  was  beset : 

Where  being  apprehended,  his  false  cunning  — 

Not  meaning  to  partake  with  me  in  danger  — 

Taught  him  to  face  me  out  of  his  acquaintance. 

And  grew  a twenty-years-removed  thing 

While  one  would  wink ; denied  me  mine  own  purse. 

Which  I had  recommended  to  his  use 
Not  half  an  hour  before. 

Vio,  How  can  this  be  ? 

Duke.  When  came  he  to  this  town  ? 

Ant.  To-day,  my  lord  : and  for  three  months  before  — 

6 Dear  is  used  in  the  same  sense  here  as  in  Hamlet : “ Would  I had  met 
my  dearest  foe  in  Heaven ! ” Tooke  has  shown  that  this  is  much  nearer  the 
original  sense  of  the  word  than  the  meaning  commonly  put  upon  it ; dear 
being  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  verb  to  dere,  which  signifies  to  hurt.  An  ob- 
ject of  love,  any  thing  that  we  hold  dear,  may  obviously  cause  us  pain,  dis- 
tress, or  solicitude : hence  the  word  came  to  be  used  in  the  opposite  senses 
of  hateful  and  beloved. 


126 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  V. 


No  interim,  not  a minute^s  vacancy  — 

Both  day  and  night  did  we  keep  company. 

Duke,  Here  comes  the  Countess : now  Heaven  walks  on 
earth.  — 

But  for  thee,  fellow,  fellow,  thy  words  are  madness  : 

Three  months  this  youth  hath  tended  upon  me ; 

But  more  of  that  anon.  — Take  him  aside. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Attendants. 

Oli,  What  would  my  lord,  but  that  he  may  not  have, 
Wherein  Olivia  may  seem  serviceable  ? — 

Cesario,  you  do  not  keep  promise  with  me. 

Vio.  Madam  ! 

Duke.  Gracious  Olivia,  — 

Oli.  What  do  you  say,  Cesario  ? — Good  my  lord,  — 

Vio,  My  lord  would  speak ; my  duty  hushes  me. 

Oh.  If  it  be  aught  to  the  old  tune,  my  lord, 

It  is  as  fat  and  fulsome’^  to  mine  ear 
As  howling  after  music. 

Duke.  Still  so  cruel? 

Oli.  Still  so  constant,  lord. 

Duke.  What,  to  perverseness  ? you  uncivil  lady. 

To  whose  ingrate  and  unauspicious  altars 

My  soul  the  faithfull’st  offerings  hath  breath’d  out 

That  e’er  devotion  tender’d  ! What  shall  I do  ? ^ 

Oli.  Even  what  it  please  my  lord,  that  shall  become  him. 
Duke.  Why  should  I not,  had  I the  heart  to  do  it, 

Like  to  th’  Egyptian  thief  at  point  of  death, 

7 Both  fat  and  fulsome  seem  here  to  have  nearly  the  sense  of  dull,  gross, 
or  sickening.  The  Poet  uses  fulsome  of  a wine  that  soon  palls  upon  the 
taste  from  its  excessive  sweetness.  *• 


SCENE  I, 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


127 


Kill  what  I love?®  a savage  jealousy 

That  sometime  savours  nobly.  But  hear  me  this  : 

Since  you  to  non-regardance  cast  my  faith, 

And  that  I partly  know  the  instrument 

That  screws  me  from  my  true  place  in  your  favour, 

Live  you  the  marble -breasted  tyrant  still ; 

But  this  your  minion,  whom  I know  you  love. 

And  whom,  by  Heaven  I swear,  I tender  dearly. 

Him  will  I tear  out  of  that  cruel  eye. 

Where  he  sits  crowned  in  his  master’s  spite.  — 

^^^ome,  boy,  with  me ; my  thoughts  are  ripe  in  mischief : 

I’ll  sacrifice  the  lamb  that  I do  love, 

\ To  spite  a raven’s  heart  within  a dove.  [ Going, 

Vio,  And  I,  most  jocund,  apt,  and  willingly. 

To  do  you  rest,  a thousand  deaths  would  die.  {Following, 

OH,  ^ Where  goes  Cesario  ? 

Vio,  After  him  I love 

More  than  I love  these  eyes,  more  than  my  life. 

More,  by  all  mores,  than  ere  I shall  love  wife.  — 

If  I do  feign,  you  witnesses  above. 

Punish  my  life  for  tainting  of  my  love  ! 

OH,  Ah  me,  detested  ! how  am  I beguiled  ! 

Vio,  Who  does  beguile  you?  who  does  do  you  wrong? 

8 An  allusion  to  the  story  of  Thyamis,  as  told  by  Heliodorus  in  his  Ethi- 
opics,  of  which  an  English  version  by  Thomas  Underdowne  was  published 
a second  time  in  1587.  Thyamis  was  a native  of  Memphis,  and  chief  of  a 
band  of  robbers.  Chariclea,  a Greek,  having  fallen  into  his  hands,  he  grew 
passionately  in  love  with  her,  and  would  have  married  her ; but,  being  sur- 
prised by  a stronger  band  of  robbers,  and  knowing  he  must  die,  he  went  to 
the  cave  where  he  had  secreted  her  with  his  other  treasures,  and,  seizing  her 
by  the  hair  with  his  left  hand,  with  his  right  plunged  a sword  in  her  breast; 
it  being  the  custom  with  those  barbarians,  when  they  despaired  of  their  own 
life,  first  to  kill  those  whom  they  held  most  dear,  so  as  to  have  them  as  com- 
panions in  the  other  world. 


128 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  I OR, 


ACT  V. 


Oli,  F >t  thou  forgot  thyself?  is  it  so  long?  — 

Call  for  the  holy  father.  \Exit  an  Attendant. 

Di  [7"^  Viola.]  Come,  away  ! 

Oli  Whither,  my  lord? — Cesario,  husband,  stay. 

L’.cke.  Husband  ! 

Oli,  Ay,  husband  : can  he  that  deny  ? 

Duke,  Her  husband,  sirrah  ! 

Vio,  No,  my  lord,  not  I. 

Oli,  Alas,  it  is  the  baseness  of  thy  fear 
That  makes  thee  strangle  thy  propriety  : ^ 

Fear  not,  Cesario  ; take  thy  fortunes  up  ; 

Be  that  thou  know’st  thou  art,  and  then  thou  art 
As  great  as  that  thou  fear’st.  — 

Re-enter  Attendant,  with  the  Priest. 

O,  welcome,  father ! 

Father,  I charge  thee,  by  thy  reverence. 

Here  to  unfold  — though  lately  we  intended 
To  keep  in  darkness  what  occasion  now 
Reveals  before  ’tis  ripe  — what  thou  dost  know 
Hath  newly  pass’d  between  this  youth  and  me. 

Priest,  A contract  and  eternal  bond  of  love. 

Confirm’d  by  mutual  joinder  of  your  hands. 

Attested  by  the  holy  close  of  lips. 

Strengthen’d  by  interchange ment  of  your  rings  ; 

And  all  the  ceremony  of  this  compact 
Seal’d  in  my  function,  by  my  testimony  : 

Since  when,  my  watch  hath  told  me,  toward  my  grave 
I’ve  travel!’ d but  two  hours. 

Duke,  O thou  dissembling  cub  ! what  wilt  thou  be 

9 “ Suppress  or  disown  \S\y proper  self;  deny  what  you  really  are." 

In  ancient  espousals  the  man  received  as  well  as  gave  a ring. 


I. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


129 


When  time  hath  sow^d  a grizzle  on  thy  caseP^i 
Or  will  not  else  thy  craft  so  quickly  grow, 

That  thine  own  trip  shall  be  thine  overthrow  ? 

Farewell,  and  take  her ; but  direct  thy  feet 
Where  thou  and  I henceforth  may  never  meet. 

Vio.  My  lord,  I do  protest,  — 

Qli^  O,  do  not  swear  ! 

Hold  little  faith,  though  thou  hast  too  much  fear. 

Enter  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek  with  his  head  broken. 

Sir  And,  For  the  love  of  God,  a surgeon  ! send  one  pres- 
ently to  Sir  Toby. 

Oli,  What’s  the  matter? 

Sir  And,  ’Has  broke  my  head  across,  and  has  given  Sir 
Toby  a bloody  coxcomb  too  : for  the  love  of  God,  your  help  ! 
I had  rather  than  forty  pound  I were  at  home. 

Oli,  Who  has  done  this.  Sir  Andrew? 

Sir  And,  The  Count’s  gentlemen,  one  Cesario  : we  took 
him  for  a coward,  but  he’s  the  very  devil  incardinate. 

Duke,  My  gentleman  Cesario  ? 

Sir  And,  ’Od’s  lifelings,!^  here  he  is!  — You  broke  my 
head  for  nothing ; and  that  that  I did,  I was  set  on  to  do’t  by 
Sir*  Toby. 

Vio,  Why  do  you  speak  to  me  ? I never  hurt  you : 

You  drew  you  sword  upon  me  without  cause ; 

But  I bespake  you  fair,  and  hurt  you  not. 

11  The  skin  of  a fox  or  rabbit  was  often  called  its  case.  So  in  Cary’s 
Present  State  of  England,  1626 ; “ Queen  Elizabeth  asked  a knight,  named 
Young,  how  he  liked  a company  of  brave  ladies.  He  answered,  “ As  I like 
my  silver-haired  conies  at  home  : the  cases  are  far  better  than  the  bodies. 

12  Lifelings  is  a diminutive  of  life,  as pittikins  is  of  pity.  ’ Od's  is  one  of 
the  disguised  oaths  so  common  in  old  colloquial  language ; the  original  form 
being  God's,  We  have  Imogen  exclaiming  'Od's pittikins  in  Cymbeline,  iv.  2. 


130 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  V. 


Sir  And,  If  a bloody  coxcomb  be  a hurt,  you  have  hurt 
me  : I think  you  set  nothing  by  a bloody  coxcomb.  — Here 
comes  Sir  Toby  halting,  — you  shall  hear  more  : but  if  he  had 
not  been  in  drink,  he  would  have  tickled  you  othergates^^ 
than  he  did. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch,  led  by  the  Clown. 

Duke.  How  now,  gentleman  ! how  is’t  with  you  ? 

Sir  To.  That’s  all  one  : ’has  hurt  me,  and  there’s  rhe  end 
on’t.  — Sot,  didst  see  Dick  surgeon,  sot? 

Clo.  O,  he’s  drunk,  Sir  Toby,  an  hour  agone ; his  eyes 
were  set  at  eight  i’  the  morning. 

Sir  To.  Then  he’s  a rogue  and  a passy-measures  paynim  : 

I hate  a drunken  rogue. 

OH.  Away  with  him  ! Who  hath  made  this  havoc  with 
them  ? 

Sir  And,  I’ll  help  you.  Sir  Toby,  because  we’ll  be  dress’d 
together. 

Sir  To.  Will  you  help  ? — an  ass-head  and  a coxcomb  and 
a kn^ve  ! a thin-faced  knave,  a gull ! 

OH.  Get  him  to  bed,  and  let  his  hurt  be  look’d  to. 

\Exeunt  Clown,  Fabian,  Sir  Toby,  and  Sir  Andrew. 

Enter  Sebastian. 

Seb.  I’m  sorry,  madam,  I have  hurt  your  kinsman ; 

But,  had  it  been  the  brother  of  my  blood, 

I must  have  done  no  less  with  wit  and  safety. 

18  Othergates  is  an  old  word  meaning  the  same  as  our  otherwise. 

14  Paynim,  meaning  pagan  or  heathen,  was  of  old  a common  term  of  re- 
proach. Sir  Toby  is  too  deeply  fuddled  to  have  his  tongue  in  firm  keeping, 
and  so  uses  passy-measures  for  past-measure,  probably. 


SCENE  I. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


I3I 


You  throw  a strange  regard  on  me  ; by  that 
I do  perceive  it  hath  offended  you  : 

Pardon  me,  sweet  one,  even  for  the  vows 
We  made  each  other  but  so  late  ago. 

Duke,  One  face,  one  voice,  one  habit,  and  two  persons,  — 
A natural  perspective, that  is  and  is  not  ! 

Seb,  Antonio,  O my  dear  Antonio  ! 

How  have  the  hours  rack’d  and  tortured  me, 

Since  I have  lost  thee  ! 

Ant,  Sebastian  are  you  ? 

Seb,  Fear’st  thou  that,  Antonio  ? 

Ant  How  have  you  made  division  of  yourself?-^ 

An  apple;  cleft  in  two,  is  not  more  twin 
Than  these  two  creatures.  Which  is  Sebastian  ? 

Oh,  Most  wonderful ! 

Seb,  Do  I stand  there  ? I never  had  a brother ; 

Nor  can  there  be  that  deity  in  my  nature. 

Of  here  and  everywhere.  I had  a sister. 

Whom  the  blind  waves  and  surges  have  devour’d.  — 

{To  Viola.]  Of  charity,  what  kin  are  you  to  me? 

What  countryman  ? what  name  ? what  parentage  ? 

Vio,  Of  Messaline  : Sebastian  was  my  father ; 

Such  a Sebastian  was  my  brother  too. 

So  went  he  suited  to  his  watery  tomb  : 

If  spirits  can  assume  both  form  and  suit. 

You  come  to  fright  us. 

15  A strange  regard  is  a look  of  estrangement  or  alienation. 

16  A perspective  formerly  meant  a glass  that  assisted  the  sight  in  any  way. 
The  several  kinds  used  in  Shakespeare’s  time  are  enumerated  in  Scot  s Dis- 
coverie  of  Witchcraft,  1584,  where  that  alluded  to  by  the  Duke  is  thus  de- 
scribed : “ There  be  glasses  also  wherein  one  man  may  see  another  man  s 
image  and  not  his  own,”  — where  that  which  is,  is  not;  or  appears,  in  a 
different  position,  another  thing. 


132 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  V. 


'I 


Se^.  A spirit  I am  indeed ; 

But  am  in  that  dimension  grossly  clad 
Which  from  the  womb  I did  participate. 

Were  you  a woman,  as  the  rest  goes  even, 

I should  my  tears  let  fall  upon  your  cheek. 

And  say,  Thrice-welcome ^ drowned  Viola  I 
Vio,  My  father  had  a mole  upon  his  brow,  — 

Sed,  And  so  had  mine. 

Vio,  — And  died  that  day  when  Viola  from  her  birth 
Had  number’d  thirteen  years. 

Seb,  O,  that  recbrd  is  lively  in  my  soul ! 

He  finished,  indeed,  his  mortal  act 

That  day  that  made  my  ^i^r  thirteen  years. 

Vio,  If  nothing  lets  make  us  happy  both 
But  this  my  masculine  usurp’d  attire. 

Do  not  embrace  me  till  each  circumstance 
Of  place,  time,  fortune,  do  cohere  and  jump,i® 

That  I am  Viola : which  to  confirm. 

I’ll  bring  you  to  a captain’s  in  this  town. 

Where  lie  my  maid’s  weeds ; by  whose  gentle  help 
I was  preferr’d  to  serve  this  noble  Count. 

All  the  occurrence  of  my  fortune  since 
Hath  been  between  this  lady  and  this  lord. 

Seb,  \_To  Olivia.]  So  comes  it,  lady,  you  have  been 
mistook  : 

But  Nature  to  her  bias  drew  in  that.^^ 


1"^  Let,  often  used  in  .the  English  Bible,  but  now  obsolete,  is  an  old  word 
for  hinder  or  prevent. 

The  Poet  repeatedly  has  jump  in  the  sense  of  agree  or  accord. 

10  Prefer  was  often  used  in  the  sense  of  recommend. 

20  To  be  mistook  was  sometimes  used,  as  to  be  mistaken  now  is,  in  the 
sense  of  making  a mistake.  The  mistake  Olivia  has  made  is  in  being  be- 


SCENE  I. 


WHAT  VOU  WILL. 


133 


You  would  have  been  contracted  to  a maid ; 

Nor  are  you  therein,  by  my  life,  deceived,  — 

You  are  betroth’d  both  to  a maid  and  man.®* 

Duke'.  Be  not  amazed  ; right  noble  is  his  blood.  — 

If  this  be  so,  as  yet  the  glass  seems  true, 

I shall  have  share  in  this  most  happy  wreck.  — 

[ To  Viola.]  Boy,  thou  hast  said  to  me  a thousand  times 
ThoiTnever  shouldst  love  woman  like  to  me. 

Vio.  And  all  those  sayings  will  I over-swear ; 

And  all  those  swearings  keep  as  true  in  soul 
As  doth  that  orbed  continent®®  the  fire 
That  severs  day  from  night. 

Duke.  Give  me  thy  hand ; 

And  let  me  see  thee  in  thy  woman’s  weeds. 

Vio.  The  captain  that  did  bring  me  first  on  shore 
Hath  my  maid’s  garments  : he,  upon  some  action, 

Is  now  in  durance,  at  Malvolio’s  suit, 

A gentleman  and  follower  of  my  lady’s. 

on.  He  shall  enlarge  him  ; — fetch  Malvolio  hither ; — 
And  yet,  alas,  now  I remember  me. 

They  say,  poor  gentleman,  he’s  much  distract. 

Re-enter  the  Clown  with  a letter,  and  Fabian. 

A most  distracting  frenzy  of  mine  own 
From  my  remembrance  clearly  banish’d  his. 

How  does  he,  sirrah? 

Cb.  Truly,  madam,  he  holds  Beelzebub  at  the  stave’s  end 

trothed  to  Sebastian  instead  of  Viola ; but  this  was  owing  to  the  bias  or  pre- 
disposition of  Nature,  who  would  not  have  a woman  betrothed  to  a woman. 

21  Sebastian  applies  the  term  maid  apparently  to  himself,  in  the  sense  of 
virgin.  And  why  not  maiden  man  as  well  as  maiden  sword  or  maiden 
Speech  f 

^ 22  Continent  formefr'ly  meant  any  thing  that  contains. 


U4 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  V. 


as  well  as  a man  in  his  case  may  do.  ’Has  here  writ  a letter 


to  you  : I should  have  given’t  you  to-day  morning ; but,  as  a 
madman’s  epistles  are  no  gospels,  so  it  skills  not  much 
when  they  are  deliver’d. 


Clo,  Look,  then,  to  be  well  edified  when  the  Fool  de- 
livers the  madman.  [Reads.]  By  the  Lord^  madam ^ — 

Oli.  How  now  ! art  thou  mad  ? 

Clo,  No,  madam,  I do  but  read  madness  : an  your  lady- 
ship will  have  it  as  it  ought  to  be,  you  must  allow  vox?^ 

Oli,  Pr’ythee,  read  i’  thy  right  wits. 

Clo,  So  I do,  madonna ; but  to  read  his  right  wits  is  to 
read  thus  : therefore  perpend,^^  my  Princess,  and  give  ear. 

Oh,  [7h  Fabian.]  Read  it  you,  sirrah. 

Fab.  [Reads.]  By  the  Lo7'd^  madam,  you  7vrong  me, 
and  the  world  shall  know  it:  though  you  have  put  me  into 
darkness,  and  given  your  d7ninken  cousin  rule  over  me,  yet 
have  I the  benefit  ofi  my  senses  as  ivell  as  your  ladyship,  1 
have  your  own  letter  that  induced  me  to  the  semblance  I put 
on;  with  the  which  I doubt  not  but  to  do  myself  much  right, 
or  you  much  shame.  Think  of  me  as  you  please.  1 leave 
my  duty  a little  unthought  of,  and  speak  out  of  my  injury. 


The  madly-used  Malvolio. 


Oli.  Did  he  write  this  ? 

Clo.  Ay,  madam. 

Duke.  This  savours  not  much  of  distraction. 

Oli.  See  him  deliver’d,  Fabian  ; bring  him  hither. — 


23  A common  phrase  in  the  Poet’s  time,  meaning  it  signifies  not  much. 

24  “ If  you  would  have  the  letter  read  in  character,  you  must  allow  me  to 
assume  the  voice  or  frantic  tone  of  a madman,” 

26  Perpend  is  consider  or  wei^ 


SCENE  r. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


135 


My  lord,  so  please  you,  these  things  further  thought  on, 

To  think  me  as  well  a sister  as  a wife, 

One  day  shall  crown  th’  alliance  on’s,  so  please  you, 

Here  at  my  house,  and  at  my  proper  cost. 

Duke.  Madam,  I am  most  apt  t’  embrace  your  offer.  — 
,\^To  Viola.]  Your  master  quits  you  ; ^6  and,  for  your  service 
done  him. 

So  much  against  the  mettle  of  your  sex. 

So  far  beneath  your  soft  and  tender  breeding. 

And  since  you  call’d  me  master  for  so  long. 

Here  is  my  hand  : you  shall  from  this  time  be 
Your  master’s  mistress. 

Oli.  A sister  ! — you  are  she. 

Re-enter  Fabian,  with  Malvolio. 

Duke.  Is  this  the  madman? 

Oli.  Ay,  my  lord,  this  same. 

How  now,  Malvolio  ! 

Mai.  Madam,  you  have  done  me  wrong, 

Notorious  wrong. 

Oli.  Have  I,  Malvolio?  no. 

Mai.  Lady,  you  have.  Pray  you,  peruse  that  letter  : 

'You  must  not  now  deny  it  is  your  hand,  — 

Write  from  it,^'^  if  you  can,  in  hand  or  phrase ; 

Or  say  ’tis  not  your  seal,  not  your  invention  : 

You  can  say  none  of  this.  Well,  grant  it  then  ; 

And  tell  me,  in  the  modesty  of  honour. 

Why  you  have  given  me  such  clear  lights  of  favour, 

26  Quit  for  acquit,  and  in  the  sense  of  release,  discharge,  or  set  free.  So 
in  Henry  V.,  iii.  4:  “For  your  great  seats,  now  quit  you  of  great  shames.” 
See,  also,  As  You  Like  It,  page  78,  note  si. 

27  Write  diff^erently  from  it.  We  have  similar  phraseology  in  common 
use ; as,  “ His  speaking  was  from  the  purpose.” 


136 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  ; OR, 


ACT  V 


Bade  me  come  smiling  and  cross-garter  VI  to  you, 

To  put  on  yellow  stockings,  and  to  frown 
Upon  Sir  Toby  and  the  lighter  people  : 

And,  acting  this  in  an  obedient  hope, 

Why  have  you  suffer’d  me  to  be  imprison’d, 

Kept  in  a dark  house,  visited  by  the  priest. 

And  made  the  most  notorious  geek  and  gull 
That  e’er  invention  play’d  on?  tell  me  wliy. 

Oli.  Alas,  Malvolio,  this  is  not  my  writing, 
d’hough,  I confess,  much  like  the  character  : 

But,  out  of  question,  ’tis  Maria’s  hand. 

And  now  I do  bethink  me,  it  was  she 

First  told  me  thou  wast  mad  : thou  earnest  in  smiling, 

And  in  such  forms  which  here  were  presupposed 
Upon  thee  in  the  letter.  Pr’ythee,  be  content : 

This  practice  hath  most  shrewdly  pass’d  upon  thee ; 

But,  when  we  know  the  grounds  and  authors  of  it. 

Thou  shalt  be  both  the  plaintiff  and  the  judge 
Of  thine  own  cause. 

Fab,  Good  madam,  hear  me  speak ; 

And  let  no  quarrel  nor  no  brawl  to  come 
Taint  the  condition  of  this  present  hour. 

Which  I have  wonder’d  at.  In  hope  it  shall  not. 

Most  freely  I confess,  myself  and  Toby 
Set  this  device  against  Malvolio  here. 

Upon  some  stubborn  and  uncourteous  parts 
We  had  conceived  in  him  : Maria  writ 
The  letter  at  Sir  Toby’s  great  importance 

28  Geek  is  from  the  Saxon  ^^eac,  a cuckoo,  and  here  means  a fool.  — Here, 
as  twice  before  in  this  play,  notorious  is  used,  apparently,  for  egregious. 

29  hnportance  for  importunity.  So,  in  King  Lcar^  iv.  4 : “ Therefore 
great  France  my  mourning  and  miportant  tears  hath  pitied,” 


SCENE  I. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


137 


In  recompense  whereof  he  hath  married  her. 

How  with  a sportful  malice  it  was  follow’d, 

May  rather  pluck  on  laughter  than  revenge  ; 

If  that  the  injuries  be  justly  weigh’d 
That  have  on  both  sides  pass’d. 

Oli,  Alas,  poor  soul,  how  have  they  baffled  thee  ! 

Clo,  Why,  some  are  born  great,  some  achieve  greatness, 
and  some  have  greatness  thrown  upon  them,  I was  one,  sir, 
in  this  interlude,  — one  Sir  Topas,  sir ; but  that’s  all  one.  — 
By  the  Lord,  Fool,  I am  not  mad ; — but  do  you  remember? 
Madam,  why  laugh  you  at  such  a barren  rascal?  an  you 
smile  not,  he's  gagg'd : and  thus  the  whirligig  of  time  brings 
in  his  revenges. 

Mai,  I’ll  be  reveng’d  on  the  whole  pack  of  you.  \_Exit. 
OH,  He  hath  been  most  notoriously  abused. 

Duke,  Pursue  him,  and  entreat  him  to  a peace  : 

He  hath  not  told  us  of  the  captain  yet : 

When  that  is  known,  and  golden  time  convents, 

A solemn  combination  shall  be  made 
Of  our  dear  souls.  Meantime,  sweet  sister, 

We  y/ill  not  part  from  hence.  — Cesario,  come  3 
For  so  you  shall  be,  while  you  are  a man  3 
But,  when  in  other  habits  you  are  seen, 

Orsino’s  mistress  and  his  fancy’s  queen. 

[^Exeunt  all  but  the  Clown. 


To  treat  with  mockery  or  insult,  to  run  a rig  upon,  and  to  make  a butt 
of,  are  among  the  old  senses  of  baffle. 

81  Convents  is  agrees  or  comes  Jit;  a Latinism. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


ACT  V. 


^38 


Song. 


Clo.  When  that  I was  and'^-  a litde  tiny  boy, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 
A foolish  thing  was  but  a toy. 

For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 


But  when  I came  to  man's  estate. 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

’ Gainst  knave  and  thief  men  shut  their  gafe,^^ 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I came,  alas  ! to  wive. 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

By  swaggering  could  I never  thrive, 

For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 


But  when  I came  unto  my  bed, 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

With  toss-pots  still  had  drunken  head^^ 

For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day, 

A great  while  ago  the  world  begun. 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain  : 

But  that's  all  one,  our  play  is  done. 

And  we'll  strive  to  please  you  every  day.  [E^it. 


32  This  redundant  use  of  and  is  not  uncommon  in  old  ballads. 

33  “ When  I was  a boy,  my  mischievous  pranks  were  little  regarded ; but, 
when  I grew  to  manhood,  men  shut  their  doors  against  me  as  a knave  and 
a thiefy  Gate  and  door  were  often  used  synonymously. 

34  “ I had  my  head  drunk  with  tossing  off  pots  or  drams  of  liquor.’’  So 
a grog-shop  is  sometimes  called  a pot-house ; and  to  toss  is  still  used  for  to 
drink. 


CRITICAL  NOTES. 


♦— 

Act  I.,  Scene  i. 

Page  30.  Of  it  came  d^er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south, 

That  breathes  upon  a bank  of  violets ^ 

Stealing  and  giving  odour.  — The  original  has  sound  instead 
of  south.  Pope,  as  is  well  known,  substituted  south,  meaning,  of  course, 
the  south  wind,  and  was  followed,  I think,  by  all  subsequent  editors 
until  Knight.  The  change  is  most  certainly  right.  For  with  what  pro- 
priety can  a sound  be  said  to  “ breathe  upon  a bank  of  violets,  stealing 
^^^nd  giving  odour  ” ? Moreover,  in  the  old  reading,  we  have  a com- 
parison  made  between  a thing  and  itself ! It  is  as  much  as  to  say, 

“ The  sweet  sound  came  o’er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  sound.”  The  Poet 
evidently  meant  to  compare  the  music  to  a sweet  breeze  loaded  with 
fragrance  ; the  former  coming  over  the  ear  as  the  latter  comes  over 
another  sense.  So  that  the  old  reading  is  simply  absurd.  Knight  and 
Grant  White  waste  a deal  of  ingenious  and  irrelevant  rhetoric  in  trying 
to  make  it  good  ; but  nothing  of  that  sort  can  redeem  it  from  absurd- 
ity. And  by  the  methods  they  use  we  can  easily  read  almost  any 
sense  we  please  into  whatever  words  come  before  us.  In  this  case, 
they  but  furnish  an  apt  illustration  of  how  a dotage  of  the  old  letter, 
and  a certain  exegetical  jugglery,  may  cheat  even  good  heads  into  an 
utter  dereliction  of  common  sense.  — Some  one  has  noted,  that  to  sup- 
pose a comparison  was  here  intended  between  the  effect  of  music  on 
the  ear  and  that  of  fragrance  on  the  sense  of  smell,  is  almost  to  ignore 
‘‘  the  difference  between  poetry  and  prose.”  O no ! it  is  merely  to 
recognize  the  difference  between  sense  and  nonsense.  For  how  should 
odour  affect  us  but  through  the  sense  of  smell?  But  perhaps  the  writer, 
being  in  a jocose  humour,  caught  the  style  of  “ sweet  bully  Bottom,” 
and  so  played  the  Duke  into  the  funny  idea  of  hearing  an  odour  that 
he  smelt,  or  of  smelling  a sound  that  he  heard.  For  why  not  a sweet'  • 

139 


140 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


sounding  smell  as  well  as  a sweet-smelling  sound?  — In  England, how- 
ever, the  south  winds  generally  are  so  ill  conditioned,  that  English  edi- 
tors are  naturally  reluctant  to  admit  such  a phrase  as  “ the  sweet  south.” 

" But  south  winds  are  not  the  same  everywhere  as  in  England : and  why 
may  not  the  Poet  have  had  in  mind  such  a south  as  often  breathes  in 
other  places?  Nor  do  English  writers  always  speak  ill  of  winds  that 
blow  from  southerly  quarters.  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  in  his  Arcadia^  I59^> 
has  the  following : “ Her  breath  is  more  sweet  than  a gentle  south-vfe?>i 
wind,  which  comes  creeping  over  flowery  fields  and  shadowed  waters.” 
And  Lettsom  notes  upon  the  passage,  “ A south-wester  is  a heavy  gale 
from  the  south-west ; but  we  often  have  genial,  bright,  and  growing 
weather  from  that  quarter,  as  well  as  from  the  south.” 

P.  31.  The  ele7nent  itself^  till  seven  years\\.^nQ,^.  — The  original  has 
heate  for  hence.  Corrected  by  Rowe.  Heat  is  ridiculous. 

p,  31.  When  liver ^ brain,  and  heart. 

These  sovereign  thrones,  her  sweet  perfections. 

Are  all  supplied  and  fill’d  with  one  self  king.  — The  original 
prints  “ Are  all  supplied  and  fill’d  ” as  the  latter  part  of  the  second  line, 
and  “ her  sweet  perfections  ” as  the  first  part  of  the  third.  Sense,  logic, 
grammar,  and  prosody,  all,  I think,  plead  together  for  the  transposition, 
which  was  made  by  Capell. 

Act  I.,  Scene  2. 

P.  31.  Vio.  What  country,  friends,  is  this  ? 

Cap.  Illyria,  lady.  — The 

original  has  “ This  is  Illyria,  Ladie.”  Pope  omitted  This  is,  and  Dyce 
suspected  it  to  be  an  interpolation. 

P.  32.  When  you,  and  this  poor  number  saved  with  you.  — The 
original  has  those  instead  of  this.  Corrected  by  Capell. 

p.  33.  For  zvhose  dear  loss. 

They  say,  she  hath  abjured  the  company 

sight  of  men.  — The  original  transposes  cofnpany  and  sight, 
and  has  love  instead  of  loss.  The  former  correction  is  Planmer’s  ; the 
latter,  Walker’s. 


CRITICAL  NOTES. 


I4I 


P.  34.  of  thee 

I well  believe  thou  hast  a mind  that  suits 

With  this  thy  fair  and  outward  character.  — The  old  text  reads 
“ I will  believe.”  The  correction  is  Walker’s.  We  have  many  in- 
stances of  well  and  will  confounded. 

Act  I.,  Scene  3. 

P.  36.  He  hath^  indeed,  all  most  natural.  — So  Collier’s  second 
folio.  The  original  has  “ almost  naturall.” 

P.  36.  What,  wench  ! Castiliano  volto.  — So  Hanmer.  The  origi- 
nal has  vulgo  for  voUo, 

P.  37.  An  thou  let  her  part  so.  — Her  is  wanting  in  the  original. 
Supplied  in  the  third  folio. 

P.  38.  Never  in  your  life,  I think  ; unless  you  saw  canary  put  me 
down.  — The  original  has  see  instead  of  saw. 

P.  39.  For  thou  see' st  it  will  not  curl  by  nature.  — The  original 
reads  “ coole  my  nature.”  One  of  Theobald’s  happy  corrections. 

P.  39.  And  yet  I will  not  compare  with  a nobleman.  — Instead  of 
a nobleman,  the  original  has  an  old  man.  But  why  should  Sir  An- 
drew here  speak  of  comparing  himself  with  an  old  man  ? The  whole 
drift  of  the  foregoing  dialogue  is  clearly  against  that  reading.  Theo- 
bald proposed  the  change  ; and  Dr.  Badham,  in  Cambridge  Essays, 
1856,  justly  remarks  upon  it  thus : “ Sir  Andrew  has  just  been  speak- 
ing of  the  Count  Orsino  as  a rival  whom  he  cannot  pretend  to  cope 
with  ; so  that  the  allusion  to  nobleman  is  most  natural.” 

P.  40.  It  does  indifferent  well  in  a ^^zxa^-colour' d stock.  — The  old 
text  reads  “ a darn'd  colour’d  stocke.”  Corrected  by  Rowe.  Knight 
changed  darn'd  to  damask,  which  has  been  adopted  in  some  editions. 
Collier’s  second  folio  has  dun-colour' d. 

Act  I.,  Scene  4. 

P.  42.  Thy  small  pipe 

Is  as  the  maiden's  organ,  shrill  in  sound.  — The  original  has 


142 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


“shrill,  and  sound.”  I suspect  it  should  be  “shrill  of  sound.”  We  have 
other  instances  where  of  and  6^  were  apparently  confounded.  The  cor- 
rection in  was  proposed  anonymously. 

Act  I.,  Scene  5. 

P.  45.  Thafs  as  much  as  to  say,  — The  original  transposes  the  sec- 
ond as^  thus : “ That’s  as  much  to  say  as.'' 

P.  46.  I take  those  wise  nien^  that  crow  so  at  these  set  kind  of  Fools, 
to  be  no  better  than  the  fools'  zanies.  — The  original  has  these  wise 
men,”  and  omits  to  be.  The  former  correction  is  Hanmer’s  ; the  latter 
was  made  by  Capell,  and  is  also  found  in  Collier’s  second  folio. 

P.  47.  For  here  comes  one  of  thy  kin.  — In  the  original,  “ heere  he 
comes.”  Rowe’s  correction. 

P.  50.  If  you  be  mad,  be  gone  ; if  you  have  reason,  be  brief.  — The 
original  reads  “ If  you  be  not  mad.”  The  correction  is  Mason’s,  and 
is  amply  sustained  by  the  context. 

P.  51.  Vio.  Some  mollification  for  your  giant,  sweet  lady. 

Oli.  Tell  me  your  mind. 

Vio.  / am  a messenger.  — So  Warburton.  The  original 
runs  the  three  speeches  all  into  one ; the  prefixes  having  probably 
dropped  out  accidentally.  See  foot-note  20. 

P.  52.  Look  you,  sir,  such  a one  I was  this  present.  — For  my  own 
part,  I see  no  difficulty  here  ; but  many  have  stumbled  at  the  text,  and 
several  changes  have  been  proposed  ; the  only  one  of  which  that  seems 
to  me  much  worth  considering  is  Lettsom’s : “ Such  a one  as  I this 
presents!  See  foot-note  22. 

• P.  52.  With  adorations,  with  fertile  tears. 


With  groans  that  thunder  love,  &c.  — The  second  with  is  lack- 


ing in  the  old  text.  Inserted  by  Pope. 

p.  ^3.  If  I did  love  you  in  my  master's  flame. 

With  such  a suffering,  such  a deadly  love.  — The  original  has 
“ such  a deadly  life!  A very  evident  misprint,  I think  ; yet  it  has 
waited  a good  while  to  be  corrected. 


CRITICAL  NOTES. 


H3 


Act  II.,  Scene  i. 

P.  56.  My  father  was  that  Sebastian  of  Messaline.  — There  is  no 
such  place  known  as  Messaline  ; so  some  think,  and  apparently  with 
good  reason,  that  we  ought  to  read  Mytilene^  the  name  of  an  island  in 
the  Archipelago. 

P.  56.  Though  I could  not^  with  such  an  estimable  wonder,  over  far 
believe  that.  — The  original  omits  an,  and  thus  leaves  the  passage  so 
very  obscure,  to  say  the  least,  that  it  might  well  be,  as  indeed  it  has 
been,  a great  puzzle  to  the  editors.  Various  changes  have  been  pro- 
posed ; but  the  insertion  of  an  is  by  far  the  simplest  and  most  satis- 
factory. It  was  proposed  by  Mr.  W.  W.  Williams  in  The  Literary 
Gazette,  March  29,  1862,  with  the  following  remark : “ I would  submit 
that,  if  Sebastian’s  speech  be  read  carefully,  it  will  require  no  long 
pondering  to  perceive  that  he  is  modestly  deprecating  any  comparison 
of  himself  with  such  a beautiful  girl  as  his  sister.  If  that  be  the  pur- 
port of  the  words,  — and  there  can  hardly  be  a doubt  about  it,  — the 
simple  insertion  of  the  indefinite  article  will  meet  all  the  necessities  of 
the  case.”  See  foot-note  4. 

Act  II.,  Scene  2. 

P.  58.  She  took  no  ring  of  me  : IHl  none  of  it.  — The  original  reads 
“ She  took  the  ring.”  As  this  is  not  true,  the  explanation  sometimes 
given  of  it  is,  that  Viola,  with  instantaneous  tact,  divines  the  meaning 
of  the  ring,  and  takes  care,  at  the  expense  of  a fib,  not  to  expose 
Olivia’s  tender  weakness.  But  this,  perhaps,  is  putting  too  fine  a point 
upon  it.  Dyce  at  one  time  retained  the  old  text ; but  in  his  last  edi- 
tion he  says,  “ I now  think  it  quite  wrong,  and  that  what  has  been  said 
in  defence  of  it  is  ridiculously  over-subtile.”  The  correction  is  from 
Collier’s  second  folio. 


P.  58.  That,  as  methought,  her  eyes  had  lost  her  tongue.  — So 
Walker.  The  original  has  “ That  me  thought  her  eyes.”  The  second 
folio  fills  up  the  gap  in  the  verse  by  inserting  sure  instead  of  as. 


144 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


P.  5S.  A/aSf  our  frailty  is  the  cause ^ not  we  ! 

For,  such  as  we  are  made  of,  such  we  be.  — The  original  has 
“ Alas,  O frailtie  is  the  cause,”  and  “ such  as  we  are  made,  if  such  we 
be.”  The  second  folio  substitutes  our  for  O and  Hanmer  printed 
“ eFn  such  we  be.”  The  common  reading  is  as  in  the  text.  Tyrwhitt’s 
correction. 

P.  59.  And  /,  poor  monster,  fond  as  much  on  him, 

As  she,  mistaken,  seems  to  dote  on  me.  — The  original  has  And 
she,  mistaken,”  &c.  Corrected  by  Dyce. 

Act  II.,  Scene  3. 

P.  64.  Out  0^  time  sir  ? ye  lie.  Art  any  7nore  than  a steward  P — 
So  Theobald.  The  old  text  has  tune  instead  of  time.  As  the  whole 
speech  is  evidently  addressed  to  Malvolio,  tune  cannot  be  right ; while 
time  accords  perfectly  with  what  has  passed  a little  before  between  Sir 
Toby  and  the  steward. 

P.65.  To  challenge  him  the  field.  — So  the  old  copies;  but  com- 
monly printed  to  the  field”;  “improperly,  I believe,”  says  Dyce. 

P.  65.  Sir  And.  Possess  us,  possess  us.  — In  the  old  text,  this  speech 
is  given  to  Sir  Toby.  Corrected  by  Walker  ; who  remarks,  “ Surely 
Sir  Toby  needed  no  information  respecting  Malvolio.” 

P.  66.  Sir  To.  And  your  horse  now  would  make  him  an  ass.  — 
Here  we  have  just  the  converse  of  the  preceding  instance  : the  speech 
has  the  prefix  “ Anl'‘  in  the  original.  But  the  speech  is  too  keen  for 
Sir  Andrew  to  make.  Tyrwhitt  pointed  out  the  error. 

Act  II.,  Scene  4. 

P.  68.  Go  seek  him  out : — and  play  the  tune  the  while.  — The 
original  lacks  Go  at  the  beginning  of  this  line.  Supplied  by  Capell. 

P.  69.  Our  fancies  are  more  giddy  and  unfirm. 

More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  a7id  won.  — So  Hanmer 
und  Collier’s  second  folio.  The  original  has  “lost  and  worne.^’ 


CRITICAL  NOTES. 


I4S 

P.  70,  Lay  me,  O,  where 

Sad  \xVi<^-love  never  find  my  grave.  — The  original  has  “ Sad 
true  lover.’*  Corrected  by  Capell. 

P.  72.  No  motion  of  the  liver ^ but  the  palate,  — 

That  suffers  surfeit,  cloyment,  and  revolt.  — The  original  has 
puffer,  which  is  convicted  of  error  by  the  explanations  it  has  called 
forth.  Corrected  by  Rowe. 

Act  II.,  Scene  5. 

P.  76.  And  perchance  wind  up  my  watch,  or  play  with  some  rich 
jewel.  — The  original  has  “ play  with  my  some  rich  jewel  7ny  being 
probably  repeated  by  mistake. 

P.  76.  Though  our  silence  be  drawn  from  us  by  th’  ears,  yet  peace, 
— So  Hanmer  and  Collier’s  second  folio.  The  original  has  the  strange 
reading,  “ drawn  from  us  with  cars  ”/  which  has  provoked  some  ex- 
planations equally  strange.  As  Dyce  remarks,  “ bith  was  very  common 
as  the  contraction  of  by  the ; and  therefore  bith  ears  might  easily  be 
corrupted  into  with  carsl^  So  I leave  the  text,  though  I have  little 
doubt  it  should  be  wi^  thl  ears  : for  the  Poet  very  often  uses  with  in 
such  cases  where  we  should  use  by,  and  the  double  elision  of  with  and 
the,  so  as  to  make  one  syllable,  is  very  frequent  with  him. 

P.  78.  And  with  what  wing  the  staniel  checks  at  it!  — The  original 
has  stallion.  Corrected  by  Hanmer. 

P.  80.  God  and  my  stars  be  praised.  — Godf  I thank  Thee.  — In 
both  these  places,  the  original  has  Jove.  But  Malvolio  is  not  a 
Heathen  ; he  is  rather  a strait-laced  sort  of  Christian  ; such  a one  as 
would  be  very  apt  to  ascribe  his  supposed  good  fortune  to  the  fact  of 
his  being  among  “ the  elect.”  So  1 suspect  that  Jove  was  inserted  by 
some  second  hand  in  compliance  with  the  well-known  statute  against 
profanation.  Halliwell  prints  as  in  the  text ; and  I was  fully  convinced 
it  ought  to  be  so,  long  before  I knew  he  had  printed  it  so. 


146 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


Act  III.,  wScENE  i. 

P.  82.  So  thou  mayst  say,  the  king  lives  by  a beggar.  — The  original 
has  lyes  instead  of  lives  ; an  error  v^^hich  the  context  readily  corrects. 

P.  84.  Would  not  a pair  of  these  breed,  sir  ? — The  original  reads 
' Would  not  a pair  of  these  have  bredl''  But  the  course  of  the  dialogue 
plainly  requires  the  sense  of  the  future. 

P.  85.  Not,  like  the  haggard,  check  at  every  feather 

That  comes  before  his  eye.  — So  Collier’s  second  folio.  The  old 
text  has  And  like  the  Haggard,”  which  just  contradicts  the  sense  re- 
quired. Johnson  suggested  the  reading  in  the  text,  and  rightly  ex- 
plained the  meaning  of  the  passage  to  be,  “ He  must  choose  persons 
and  times,  and  observe  tempers  ; he  must  fly  at  proper  game,  like  the 
trained  hawk,  and  not  fly  at  large  like  the  unreclaimed  haggard,  to 
seize  all  that  comes  in  his  way.” 

P.  85.  For  folly,  that  he  wisely  shows,  is  fit ; 

But  wise  men^s  folly,  shown,  quite  taints  their  wit.  — The  origin 
nal  has  “ But  wisemens  folly  falne,  quite  taint  their  wit  ” ; from  which 
no  rational  meaning  can  be  gathered.  The  word  shows,  in  the  preced- 
’T-g  line,  points  out  the  right  reading.  Hanmer  made  the  correction. 
le  foot-note  12. 

P.  86.  Pll  gei  'em  all  three  ready.  — The  original  has  “ all  three 
already."  Corrected  in  the  third  folio. 

P.  87.  Give  me  leave,  I beseech  you.  — So  the  third  folio.  The 
earlier  editions  omit  /. 

# 

Act  III.,  Scene  2. 

P.  89.  Did  she  see  thee  the  while,  old  boy  ? — So  the  third  folio. 
The  earlier  editions  omit  thee. 

P.  91.  We'll  call  thee  at  thy  cubiculo.  — So  Hanmer.  The  origi 
nal  has  the  instead  of  thy. 


CRITICAL  NOTES. 


147 


P.  92.  For  Andrew,  if  he  were  open'd,  you  find  so  much  blood  in 
his  liver,  &c.  — The  original  has  “ if  he  were  open’d,  and  you  find.” 
The  correction  is  Walker’s.  And  is  indeed  an  archaic  form  of  the  old 
concessive  an. 

P.  92.  Look,  where  the  youngest  wren  of  nine  comes.  — So  Theo 
bald.  The  old  text  has  mine  instead  of  nine.  See  foot-note  ii. 

Act  III.,  Scene  3. 

P.  93.  As  might  have  drawn  me  to  a longer  voyage.  — The  original 
has  one  instead  of  me.  Corrected  by  Heath. 

P.  94.  I can  no  other  answer  make,  but  thanks. 

And  thanks,  and  ever  thanks  ; too  oft  good  turns 
Are  shuffled  off  with  such  uncurrent  pay.  — In  the  original,  the 
second  line  stands  thus : “ And  thankes : and  ever  oft  good  turnes.” 
A large  number  of  readings  has  been  made  or  proposed.  That  in  the 
text  is  by  Seymour. 

Act  III.,  Scene  4. 

P.  96.  I have  sent  after  him  : says  he,  he'll  come. 

How  shall  I feast  him  ? — The  old  text  reads  “ he  says  hee’l 
come.”  But  the  concessive  sense  is  evidently  required,  not  the  affirma- 
tive. Theobald  saw  this  clearly,  and  so  printed  “ say  he  will  come.” 
The  simple  transposition  made  in  the  text  gets  the  same  sense  naturally 
enough  ; the  subjunctive  being  often  formed  in  that  way. 

P.97.  My  yellow  stockings!  — The  original  has  Thy  instead  of 
My.  The  correction  is  Lettsom’s,  and  a very  happy  one  it  is  too. 

P.  98.  Let  thy  tongue  twang  arguments  of  State.  — The  original  has 
“ let  thy  tongue  langer  with  arguments.”  The  second  folio  substitutes 
tang  for  langer  ; tang  being  merely  an  old  form  or  spelling  of  twang. 
See  the  letter  as  given  in  full  in  ii.  5,  page  80. 

P.  98.  But  it  is  God’s  doing,  and  God  make  me  thankful. — Here, 
again,  as  also  later  in  the  same  speech,  the  original  has  Jove.  See 
note  on  “ God  and  my  stars  be  praised,”  page  145. 


148 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


P.  102.  Very  brief,  and  exceeding  good  sense — less.  — vSo  Rowe  and 
various  others.  The  original  has  “ and  to  exceeding.”  I cannot  see 
what  business  to  has  there. 

P.  103.  Fve  said  too  much  unto  a heart  of  stone. 

And  laid  mine  honour  too  unchary  out. — So  Theobald.  The 
original  has  “too  unchary  on't'' ; which  some  editors  still  retain,  and 
try  to  support  with  arguments  more  ingenious  than  sound. 

P.  104.  He  is  knight,  dubdd  with  unhack’d  rapier  and  on  carpet 
consideration.  — So  Pope.  The  original  has  “ with  unhatchld  rapier.” 
To  hatch  was  used  for  to  ornament ; so  that  unhatcFd  rapier  would 
hardly  accord  with  the  occasion.  Of  course  an  unhacFd  rapier  is  a 
rapier  that  has  done  no  service  in  fight.  So  in  King  John,  ii.  i ; 
“ With  unhacFd  swords  and  helmets  all  unbruised.” 

Act  III.,  Scene  5. 

P.  106.  Scene  V. — The  Street  adjoining  OiaviaIs  Garden. — The 
original  and  most  modern  editions  print  this  scene  as  a continuation  of 
I the  preceding  one.  In  the  Poet’s  time,  changes  of  scene  were  not 

unfrequently  left  to  the  imagination  of  the  audience ; the  machinery 
and  furniture  not  being  so  ample  then  as  in  later  days.  The  course  of 
the  action  and  various  particulars  of  the  dialogue,  as  any  one  will  see 
who  notes  them  carefully,  plainly  require  a change  of  scene  in  this 
place.  Dyce  arranges  as  in  the  text. 

P.  109.  Relieved  him  with  all  sanctity  of  love  ; 

And  to  this  image,  which  methought  did  promise 
Most  venerable  worth,  did  I devotion. 

I But,  O,  how  vile  an  idol  proves  this  god!  — The  original  has 

“ with  such  sanctity,”  and  “ to  his  image.”  With  the  former,  the  text 
has  so  abrupt  and  misplaced  a break  in  the  sense,  that  Walker  thought, 
as  he  well  might,  that  a line  had  dropped  out  after  love.  The  context, 
I think,  fairly  requires  the  sense  of  all  instead  of  such.  Much  might 
more  easily  be  misprinted  such,  but  is  not  strong  enough  for  the  place. 
^ The  common  reading  sets  a dash  after  love,  of  course  to  indicate  a 

j , break  in  the  sense : the  original  has  a ( ; ) as  if  not  aware  of  any  break. 


CRITICAL  NOTES. 


149 


“ To  this  image  ” is  proposed  by  Walker  ; and  the  occurrence  of  idol 
in  the  last  line  shows  it  to  be  right.  Antonio  does  not  mean  that  he 
has  been  worshipping  an  image  of  the  supposed  Sebastian,  but  that 
what  he  has  taken  for  something  divine  turns  out  to  be  but  a hollow 
image. 

Act  IV.,  Scene  i. 

P.  III.  I am  afraid  this  great  lubberly  world  will  prove  a cockney, 
— So  Collier’s  second  folio.  The  original  has  “ this  great  lubber  the 
World.”  Douce  proposed  to  read  “ this  great  lubberly  wordf  taking 
word  as  referring  to  vent^  and  that  reading  is  adopted  by  White,  who 
explains  great  lubberly  as  meaning  pretentious,  Dyce  says,  “ I can 
hardly  believe  that  Shakespeare  would  have  made  the  Clown  speak  of 
vent  as  a ‘ great  lubberly  word.’  ” 

P.  1 12.  Why,)  there's  for  thee^  and  there ^ and  there,  and  there  ! 

Are  all  the  people  mad?  — The  original  lacks  the  last  and  there, 
which  was  added  by  Capell.  Such  omissions  are  apt  to  occur  in  case 
of  such  repetitions.  . 

P.  1 14.  Nay,  come,  / pray;  would  thou^dst  be  ruled  by  me, — So 
Pope.  The  original  has  “Nay  come  I prethee?"'  Walker  says,  “ Read 
I pray  ; the  other  is  too  rugged  for  a rhyming  couplet.” 

Act  IV.,  Scene  2. 

P.  1 14.  Sir  To.  God  bless  thee,  master  parson,  — Here  also  the  old 
text  has  Jove  ; quite  as  much  out  of  place  as  in  the  former  instances. 

P.  1 15.  Say' st  thou  this  house  is  dark?  — The  original  has  that  in- 
stead of  this.  Corrected  by  Rann. 

P.  1 17.  I cannot  pursue  with  any  safety  this  sport  to  the  upshot. — 
The  original  omits  to.  Supplied  by  Rowe. 

P.  1 19.  Are  you  not  mad  indeed?  or  do  you  but  counterfeit  ? — This 
must  mean  “Are  you  really  sane?  or  do  you  but  pretend  to  be  so?” 
Johnson  proposed  to  strike  out  not,  and,  I suspect,  rightly.  That 


ISO 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


would  give  the  meaning,  “Are  you  really  mad?  or  have  you  merely 
been  shamming  madness?”  which  seems  more  in  keeping  with  the 
Clown’s  humour. 

P.  1 19.  Adieu,  goodman  Devil,  — The  original  has  goodman 
divell”;  thus  making  a rhyme  by  repeating  the  same  word.  Many 
recent  editors  change  divell  to  drivel.  Still  I must  think  the  change 
to  be  wrong ; for  such  repetitions,  instead  of  rhymes  proper,  are  not 
unfrequent  in  old  ballads ; especially  where  the  rhymes  are  not  con* 
secutive. 

Act  V.,  Scene  i. 

P.  123.  The  triplex,  sir,  is  a good  tripping  measure ; as  the  bells  of 
Saint  Bennet,  &c.  — So  Hanmer.  The  old  text  has  or  instead  of  as. 

P.  128.  A contract  and  eternal  bond  of  love.  — So  Collier’s  second 
folio.  Instead  of  and,  the  original  repeats  ofhy  anticipation. 

P.  130.  Then  he's  a rogue  and  a passy-nieasures  paynim.  — The 
original  has  panyn,  which  Pope  corrected  to  paynim,  an  old  form  of 
pagan.  The  second  folio  changes  pavyn  to  Panin.  See  foot-note  14. 

P.  1 31.  You  throw  a strange  regard  on  me  ; by  that 

I do  perceive  it  hath  offended  you.  — The  original  reads  “ a 
strange  regard  upon  me,  and  by  that.”  The  reading  in  the  text  is 
Lettsom’s  ; who  remarks,  “ and  is  wretchedly  flat  here  ; it  probably 
crept  in  from  the  line  above.  Pope  and  others  have  ^ on  me,  by 
which ^ &C.” 

P.  132.  Pll  bring  you  to  a captain’s  in  this  town. 

Where  lie  my  maid’s  weeds  ; by  whose  gentle  help 
I was  preferred  to  serve  this  noble  Count.  — The  old  text  has 
Captaine  instead  of  captain's,  7naiden  instead  of  maid's,  a.nd  preserv' d 
instead  of  preferr'd.  The  first  change  is  from  Collier’s  second  folio  ; 
the  other  two  were  made  by  Theobald,  one  for  the  metre,  the  other  for 
the  sense  ; as  preserv'd  gives  an  untrue  meaning.  A little  further  on, 
Viola  speaks  of  “ my  maid's  garments.” 


CRITICAL  NOTES. 


I51 

P.  133.  A most  distracting  frenzy  of  mine  ozvn.  — So  Hanmer  and 
Collier’s  second  folio.  The  original  has  “ most  extracting  frenzy.” 
Here  extracting  has  to  be  explained  in  the  sense  of  distracting,  while 
it  does  not  appear  that  the  word  was  ever  used  in  that  sense.  And  the 
preceding  line  has  distract  in  the  same  sense. 

P.  135.  One  day  shall  crown  thl  alliance  on’s,  so  please  you.  — The 
old  text  has  “ th’  alliance  ond  ” ; the  easiest  of  misprints.  Of  course 
on's  is  a contraction  of  on  us.  The  Poet  has  many  such. 

P.  136.  It  was  she 

First  told  me  thou  wast  mad : thou  earnest  in  smiling.  — So 
Collier’s  second  folio,  and  with  manifest  propriety.  The  old  text  has 
then  instead  of  the  second  thou. 

P.  136.  Upon  some  stubborn  and  uncourteous  parts 

We  had  conceived  in  him.  — The  original  reads  “ conceiv’d 
against  him,”  defeating  both  sense  and  verse.  No  doubt  against 
in  from  the  second  line  before.  Corrected  by  Tyrwhitt. 

P.  137.  Alas,  poor  soul,  hozv  have  they  baffled  thee  ! — So  Walker 
and  Collier’s  second  folio.  The  old  text  has  fool  instead  of  soul.  It  is 
true,  as  Dyce  notes,  that  the  Poet  has  poor  fool  repeatedly  as  a term  of 
familiar  endearment  or  of  pitying  fondness  ; but  that  seems  to  me  too 
strong  a sense  for  this  place. 

P.  138.  ' Gainst  and  thief  men  shut  their  gate.  — So  Farmer 

The  original  has  “ Knaves  and  Theeves.  ” Also,  in  the  second  stanza 
after,  it  has  “ unto  my  bedsf  and  “ drunken  heades."  See  foot-note  33. 


'^h-Ur^  '■ 


/ 


/ 


